


LHR-HNL

by scullyseviltwin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-17 19:11:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In need of an endangered flora sample, Sherlock and John must make a trip to an unexpected destination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this fanart by ireallyshouldbedrawing](http://ireallyshouldbedrawing.tumblr.com/image/47121190016).
> 
> Rating to change.

It was a Sunday morning and a rather peaceful one at that for 221B. John busied himself with tidying the sitting room and starting a few loads of laundry while Sherlock took up all of the space in the kitchen, setting down stacks of notes and heaps of file folders that looked ancient to crumbling. 

Rust colored manila. The borrowed police files, then. 

The detective had been muttering to himself for the better part of three hours about what exactly was under his microscope slide. Unable to abide the nonstop and seemingly indecipherable words, John had escaped the flat - having not bothered at all with trying to fix dinner amongst the chaos - and had taken himself off to the Indian place around the block, looking to procure them some sort of sustenance.

When he returned, Sherlock’s neck was craned even further than it had been when he’d left, hair fluffy and unkempt as though he’d been tugging at it in vain. The detective, standing at the microscope, twisted his hips from side to side, mouth pressed into a straight line as he squinted into the eyepiece. One hand rested on the fine adjustment knob and the other cut through the air so swiftly and with such precision that it looked as though he was conducting the rhythm of his own thoughts. 

And perhaps he was; John didn’t like to think about that though, about what the inner workings of Sherlock’s mind _looked_ like. He couldn’t even begin to imagine.

“Can’t be New Zealand, impossible,” Sherlock chastised himself and John rolled his eyes appropriately at the man’s commentary, began pulling naan and chicken tikka containers out of the bags. “That smells heavenly, “ Sherlock muttered offhandedly, sparing a quick glance over at John though not allowing the aroma to detract from his thoughts. 

He began rattling off facts aloud, whether for himself or for John was unclear, but his words came fast, blurred together in their insistence. 

“It looks to be of a similar sort to those found on Samoa but that’s unlikely as Davis didn’t have a passport and couldn’t have traveled outside of the-” Sherlock paused, hands to his temples, face brightening as he very clearly fastened onto a possibility. John coveted these moments, when a wave of brilliance would overtake him and smooth the lines from his face, light his eyes. He was akin in these times to a child on Christmas morning and it was a sight to behold; it made John’s heart hurt with affection and was the reason that he, along with Sherlock, _craved_ new puzzles. “Hawaii! Perhaps a native plant.”

He looked to John for some sort of response, face still glowing with delight. Caught a bit like a deer in headlights, John realized he’d been so wrapped up in cataloging Sherlock’s facial expressions that he hadn’t been listening particularly closely. 

“Of course you know indigenous Hawaiian flora, of _course_ you do,” John confirmed, nodding along, though just barely following; still, he wore a small, indulgent smile on his lips. This had been going on for days and truth be told, it was a challenge for the doctor to keep the various aspects of the various cases sorted in his head. For Sherlock to become engrossed in a minor detail in a case was one thing. For Sherlock to become obsessed with a minor detail in a case that had been _solved_ by Scotland Yard in the fifties was... quite another.

For Sherlock to be obsessed with said detail for the better part of the week was particularly excruciating. They had no cases on and as such, to quell Sherlock’s incessant texting and phoning, Lestrade had allowed him to select a few cold case files from the Met archives. To the confusion of both other men, he’d selected only one unsolved case but had chosen a half of a dozen folders from the solved archives, poring over boxes and boxes for hours until he’d been satisfied with his selections. And John discovered after a week in both Sherlock’s and the cases’ presence, that each incident had an aspect to it that didn’t fit, an aspect that didn’t quite make any sense in the connotation of the evidence. 

Much to Sherlock’s delight.

For whatever reason, Sherlock had found this fascinating and had been sussing out the possible relevance of each of these elements, one by one. It had taken him six days to deduce the incongruent elements in the other five cases. He was currently embroiled in discovering the sixth. John thought it was a bit odd that he would be so obsessed with cases already solved, but having an occupied Sherlock was preferable to an unoccupied and potentially _bored_ Sherlock, so he said nothing contrarian. 

Still, the detective had delved into the sixth case with a gusto that surprised John in its intensity. John would not have believed Sherlock would have applied himself with such fervour to as seemingly pointless a task as this, then again, he was quite used to being proven wrong when in the presence of Sherlock Holmes.

He’d been to the London Horticultural Society and back several times to no avail. Each of these failed trips had resulted in a new ding in the floor, another smashed test tube, a strop, and Sherlock pounding about the sitting room like an annoyed child. Still, the strops were of smaller proportions than he might have indulged in if he had been bored and John accepted this as a small miracle.

Sherlock had taken to skyping with notable botanists and biologists around the world - putting his skill with languages to use while simultaneously causing John to be very envious - and had gotten only a few leads to further spur his research. 

The leads he had gotten had taken him to this morning and the kitchen table, and every last available clean slide that happened to be in 221B. “A plant that flowers... indigenous to... it’s a possibility.” Sherlock dragged his fingers through his hair and made several notations in his moleskine; what looked like chicken scratch to John was likely highly complicated observations on the nature of the plant. “Then yes, it must be a species of...”

There was silence; John glanced over his shoulder to find Sherlock staring at him.

“That really does smell...”

John smirked and turned back to the counter, popping the flimsy plastic lids off of the containers. He pulled down two plates from the cupboard and began spooning rice onto each. He compacted a pile onto Sherlock’s plate, sneakily giving him more than he’d doled out for himself; he’d probably be found out and given a lecture on why Sherlock didn’t eat when working, but it was worth a shot. 

Sherlock paced up behind him and glanced over his shoulder at the portions he was doling out, asking for a bit more biryani - with a belated ‘please’, John had been teaching him _some_ things - and commented on the fact that he was fairly certain he’d narrowed it down to a locale. He didn’t even _mention_ the rice, John noted, self-satisfied. 

“That’s good, isn’t it?” John handed over a plate and then moved some books and papers off of the kitchen table. He joined the detective, who had surprisingly decided to wait for him to tuck into his food. “That you’ve narrowed it down, that this-” John gestured with his fork at the research detritus that was strewn about the kitchen. 

Sherlock chewed and swallowed and shook his head, tearing his naan into tiny pieces and piling them on the right side of his plate. “Native species of this nature may well be extinct now.” The detective speared a piece of potato, going back to adorn each prong of his fork with a pea before scrutinizing it and popping the bite into his mouth. “I’ll likely have to get a sample flown in and that will take...” 

Sherlock chewed around his scowl, shoveled another bite in and let John come to his own conclusion. “You know, if you just learned a little patience, wait no, I’m not even going to finish that sentence,” John laughed at nearly having taken the bait, shook his head as he chewed. “You have contacts who can get that to you? That sample.”

There was a pause as Sherlock dragged his fork through the sauce on his plate, metal screeching unpleasantly against the dishware. Looking at John from under his lashes, he gave a bit of a shrug. “Not as such,” he conceded, gloomily. “But I will, once I press the contacts I’ve already _made_. Though, who’s to say if they’ll be any help at all. Botanists who can’t deduce a species of plant? Perhaps they came by their degrees _online_.”

John scoffed and smiled, stood to retrieve the container of chicken and bring it to the table. He spooned more onto Sherlock’s plate before even asking. If he didn’t call attention to it, perhaps the man would simply eat it. “Fair enough, but remember that you’ve been speaking with botanists who are likely living in their geographical region because their specialty is for the flora in that area. And you said it may be extinct, right? That’s a pretty small subset of... botanists, or whatever.”

John didn’t want to seem too interested in what he was nearly certain would be a wild goose chase, lest Sherlock force him to participate in some way. His only experience with plants thus far was forgetting to water the ones at the surgery and giving modest bouquets to a handful of women and relatives over the years. 

“I... suppose,” Sherlock conceded _again_ , miracle of miracles, and a warm thrill ran through John’s belly at not only having managed to get more than one helping of food into the man, but to have actually landed a valid point that sunk in his overflowing and likely cluttered mind. 

John smiled to himself and mixed the rice in with his sauce as the words came out unbidden. “Course if that fails, there’s always Mycroft.” It took him a moment to sense the gravity of his misstep; he’d ripped the pin from the grenade and there would be no shoving it back in. 

The glare he received was the detonation and John’s shoulders sagged, all progress he’d made washed away with one mention of Mycroft. There were things he couldn't remember, that he had to reteach himself since Sherlock’s return. That was apparently one of them. “Forget I said anything.”

“Oh,” Sherlock growled. “I will most certainly _try_.”

John was still coming to terms with Sherlock’s return, never was that more evident than in moments like these. Moments in which Sherlock would lash out in an anger that John saw as unjustified and John had to hold his tongue not to hurl the hateful sentiments that welled up in him. As though Sherlock was not allowed his irrational anger because John’s was more plain.

It was absurd that after all of these months he still felt that way, still felt the raw sting of three years alone when the detective would rage about the lack of hydrochloric acid in the flat or that fact that no cases were on or they were out of the tea he liked. “Your anger has no place here,” John always had the urge to spit, “You’re never ever allowed to be angry with me again, because you _left_.” He never said it, but in the dark of his room in the late of the night, he thought sometimes that it was how he truly felt.

And he hated himself for it, just a bit. He hated himself for thinking that it would never be like it was before again.

They spent the rest of their meal in silence, stealing glances at one another every few bites.

After dinner, Sherlock retreated to the sitting room with his laptop, characteristically leaving John to the cleaning up. But John, not feeling up to the task either, simply rinsed their plates and cutlery and left them sitting on the counter next to the sink. “Sherlock. You’re an adult, it’s your turn and I’m leaving these here for you. To _wash_.” 

From the sofa came a disgruntled huff of a response and John took it as good a sign as any as he’d been acknowledged. Shuffling to the loo, John shut himself inside and pulled his towel from the hook, draping it over the railing just next to the tub. He carelessly dropped his clothes in a pile on the toilet, checked in the mirror briefly and decided he didn’t need a shave until tomorrow evening. 

After turning on the spray and stepping under, he finally felt alone enough to allow his mind to linger on a subject he’d been waiting all _day_ to ponder over. 

Recently, John had noticed that Sherlock had become more pliable, more open to suggestion. His time away - his time playing _dead_ , John’s subconscious reminded him bitterly - surely could have altered him so viscerally that he’d come back a changed man. No doubt. 

John had come to accept that Sherlock would say yes to meals and to requests that he take a rest. He accepted that Sherlock would now accompany him to the shop and stood just a hair closer than necessary when they were at a crime scene. 

What he couldn’t accept so easily, what he couldn’t exactly understand, were the touches. Not the fleeting touches of before, to a shoulder, a bicep, occasionally the small of the back. He couldn’t accept at face value the touches to his brow as Sherlock turned to him before getting in a cab or along the back of his neck when Sherlock would sidle up next to him while he was at the refrigerator. 

These were touches of intent, touches that spoke of affection. Face under the spray, John thought about the last instance, of Sherlock hooking his right pinky finger with his own in a cab to Shepherd’s Bush for no reason at all. He hadn’t let it go for a solid five minutes, leaving John to remain perfectly still and stare down at the held digit as Sherlock gazed out the window _as though nothing at all was happening_.

Though - he supposed - he’d been a bit more overtly demonstrative as well. Just two weeks ago he’d pushed the fringe out of Sherlock’s eyes after he’d risen from inspecting a body. No one had been looking but John hadn’t known that at the time - reaching out and smoothing back Sherlock’s hair just happened. The light that had jumped to Sherlock’s eyes in that instant had been all that he’d thought about for _hours_ afterward, even as they had sat in Lestrade’s office piecing together the case.

And now, it was all he thought about as he shampooed his hair hastily, working fingers through the suds with little care. As he finished up he decided that he didn’t want to dwell on what any of the touches meant, not until it happened again. If he did, Sherlock would see through him in an instant; the careful current of affection that hummed beneath his skin and bones would crest and present itself and he’d never be able to hide it again.

John tamped it all back down, shoved it into the roiling little box in his stomach, away from the light; he was too knackered now and had to be up rather early for a shift at the clinic; it was no time to worry over what he felt for his flatmate. It was no time to wonder if the word affection didn’t quite do any of it justice.

Swallowing painfully, John turned off the shower and gave himself a moment, forehead against the tile as he composed his thoughts. Then, expeditiously, he dried his hair and body, left the bathroom in a rush of humid air and mounted the steps to his room.

Sherlock, in the living room, shouted at his laptop screen before slamming it closed. 

_And then some things don’t change,_ John mused to himself, heading up the steps and dressing for bed.

When he’d made it back down to the kitchen - hair ruffled and drying - to put the kettle on for his pre-bed cuppa, Sherlock was standing in the walkthrough between the kitchen and sitting room positively _seething_. John’s hand halted en route to the cupboard to retrieve his mug. 

“...What?” he asked as cautiously as he was capable of.

“You know what,” Sherlock ground back, chin shaking with the effort of the pressure of his teeth.

John blinked. “No, I really don’t.”

Sherlock blinked back twice at him, as though upping the ante. “No one can get me a sample. No one knows... because it _is_ quite endangered after all. Protected by the United States government you see. At least, what they have left of their government...”

Slowly, John pulled down his mug, not wanting to stir Sherlock into a frenzy although he had no idea where he was going with his explanation. As he placed a tea bag into the mug, the realization crashed into him, draining what was left of his lingering pleasant mood. “Mycroft.”

“Yes,” Sherlock ground his teeth. It was a wonder that steam wasn’t puffing from his ears. “ _Mycroft_ ”

John slinked his way up to bed once his tea was done, leaving Sherlock to pace the sitting room in a quiet rage. At least it was quiet, John supposed. Still, for Sherlock to think that his casual mention of his brother’s name had somehow made his involvement a necessity - and somehow magically negating any information that any of Sherlock’s contacts had - was a bit much. John could tell, too, by the set of Sherlock’s jaw that he’d expected an apology.

An apology for mentioning his brother’s name.

Arrogant. Sod.

\---

When John made it down to the kitchen in the morning, he had a face full of consulting detective before he ever really had the chance to open his eyes; he swatted at the taller man uselessly. Sherlock grasped his shoulders in damp palms and dipped his head so they were eye level with one another. “That bastard. Has not answered me.”

Eyes rimmed red, lips slightly chapped, skin sallow and papery; it was obvious that Sherlock hadn’t slept and with a disappointed scoff, John sidestepped him. “Haven’t even had my coffee yet, Sherlock.” He managed to pull down the french press and tin of grounds just before Sherlock appeared behind him, placed his palms back on John’s shoulders and spun him around.

They stared at each other a moment, Sherlock’s gaze searching, John’s annoyed. “He’s punishing me,” Sherlock claimed.

Rolling his eyes, John snatched at either hand with his free one and pulled them off of his shoulders. “For what? And when did you call him, anyhow? It can’t have been more than eight hours ago! The man does have a job and is _is_ Monday morning. I know you hate to admit it but he does have a place in the British government, so perhaps he’s otherwise engaged.” John’s temper had run short, his words clicking in his throat as they usually did when he spoke with anger, too quickly. 

Sherlock spun away, rattling off details about why he needed the samples and when and for what and John simply tried to pour the grounds into the press without spilling any or throwing the vessel at his flatmate’s head. Tearing about the sitting room, kicking papers about, Sherlock fretted; he knocked into the lamp but managed to catch it before it shattered on the floor. 

In the kitchen, the doctor rolled his eyes. 

John went about making himself breakfast, adding another piece of toast for Sherlock at the last moment. Slicing tomatoes to go along with the eggs that were currently frying in the pan (next to the bangers, of course) he hummed to himself, paying no mind to the man in the other room who was squawking at himself like a mad chicken. Angst-ridden, Sherlock tossed himself onto the sofa in a huff, crossing his arms vehemently as he kicked his feet up on the arm.

“Breakfast is almost ready,” came John’s needless call, he already knew what the response would be.

“Not hungry!”

Smiling to himself as he mimicked along Sherlock’s words, the doctor called back, “Don’t... give a damn!” He stirred milk into his coffee and poured a black cup for Sherlock, right alongside his. Taking a step back, he looked at the mugs, John’s army, Sherlock’s plain, sleek black. They couldn’t be more different, and yet there they were, side by side on the cupboard shelf.

He had to shake his head of the thought; how positively soppy and _ridiculous_. “Come in here and at least pretend!”

Surprisingly after a moment, Sherlock did as told, stomping into the room and standing behind his chair. John placed a heaping plate at Sherlock’s setting and did the same for himself, about to sit when the doorbell sounded. Both men raised their brows at one another before John - still clad in pajamas and his robe - resigned himself and headed for the landing. It took him a moment to make it down the steps, but when he opened the door it was to a smartly-dressed, stoic man who was holding an envelope out to him.

There were no words written on the heavy cardstock and John squinted at the envelop and then back at the man. 

He turned the parcel over in his hand twice. “Is this for me, or...”

The man blinked once as his lips twitched in irritation. “Just open it, Dr. Watson,” and with that the man turned on heel, and got into a sleek, black car. The hairs on the back of John’s neck stood up as he walked it go, the question of who was behind it all but moot, now. He rolled his eyes at Mycroft and his techniques and closed the door with his hip.

Sliding a finger against the flap of the envelope, he mounted the steps back up to the flat.

Just before he entered he pulled out what was inside, pulled the flaps open and- 

No.

...No...

John reread it twice before a carefully smile jumped it his lips. As he felt it curl his lips he immediately sucked in his lips and stepped into the sitting room. 

The detective was in the kitchen, walking around the table; John briefly noticed that half of his piece of toast was mysteriously missing from his plate. “It’s utterly paramount that I have a sample within three days,” Sherlock rambled. “Anything outside of three days would affect the veracity of the experiment.” Hands flying wildly about his head, Sherlock paced in a tiny circuit, pausing only to snatch up the other triangle of toast.. 

John glanced back down at what he held in his hand. “Uh, Sherlock...”

Huffing, the detective suddenly hunched over his microscope, trying quite hard to make John believe that he hadn’t been heard. “For once I actually _need_ something from him, and he doesn’t even bother to _try_!”

“Sherlock...”

“What could you possibly, at this very moment, _need from me_.” It’s not short, but withering, Sherlock at his wits end as he threaded his fingers through his hair.

“About the Hawaiian plant, or whatever it was. “John knew his face was a mask of disbelief, right side of his mouth curling into a shaky smile. In his left hand he held an empty, torn envelope. In the right, what appeared to be two airline tickets. “Mycroft says ‘Get it yourself.’”


	2. Chapter 2

Taking a cab to Heathrow had to be the worst idea John could ever have conceived; this, of course was realized in hindsight as he sat across from a very lanky, very perturbed consulting detective who was using their time stuck in traffic to kick him in the shins. Repeatedly.

“Wouldn’t have had to endure this traffic- _arse_ ,” John growled and kicked back for once, “if you’d just asked Mycroft for a bloody car.”

Sherlock continued to kick, though he allowed his head to loll against the seat as though he hadn’t a care in the world - which, at the moment, he obviously did not. “Ugh. No. Wouldn’t want to _owe_ him anything.”

“Have you completely missed the bit where he’s sending you and - well, not just you, his brother, but his brother’s _flatmate_ to America on his bill?”

Sherlock did his best to roll his eyes straight out of his head. “Hardly, John. Hawaii is an archipelago and part of Polynesia, it’s barely America.”

But even the notion that he was leaving London caused a thrill to run down John’s spine. Just being away from the rainy mess of Westminster for a while and with Sherlock, he didn’t allow any of the ridiculous fantasies that sprung to mind permeate his actual imagination. That wouldn’t do. “True, they have sun and the ocean and little drinks with umbrellas in them. Might as well be paradise, yeah?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, again, less dramatically than before. “Dull, with or without the drinks with, what was it, _umbrellas_ in them?” He laughed humorlessly at the very notion.

“Oi, you tosser, your brother is sending you someplace nice, someplace people _desire_ to go, just so you can see about your vicci menza whatever so just... shut your mouth, be grateful and don’t ruin my... holiday.”

“Vicia menziesii, John,” Sherlock sighed and allowed his forehead to fall forward and to the side, landing against the window with a delightfully loud thump. “I don’t need you with me for this,” he said to the window.

“I know,” John replied quietly.

“But I feel I should let you know that I am... glad you’re accompanying me.” Sherlock offered, staring steadfastly at the blurring passersby milling on the pavement outside. “It would be dreadfully boring without you.” Voice soft and quiet, Sherlock stopped speaking.

John smiled, a little flicker of a thing. “Well, thank you.” _I’m bored without you too,_ he nearly said. _I’m so_ very alone _without you near_.” Instead he remained quiet, gazed at Sherlock who was gazing out of the window.

John was exhausted. Preparing for a trip to a destination where the weather was surely to be hot and dry and intensely sunny was not an easy task. Neither one of them had any clothing suitable for such a destination and Sherlock - thinking the preparation beneath him - had thrust his bank card and actually _asked_ John to take care of it.

He hadn’t demanded it.

He’d _asked_.

So John had spent more time than he’d ever thought possible in Marks & Spencer outfitting them. Chino shorts and lightweight linen trousers; short-sleeved cotton shirts and polos. He’d squirmed as he floated through the male swimwear section; would Sherlock even _consider_ going to the beach? It was Hawaii, after all and the first thing that came to mind when one thought Hawaii was the ocean. He didn’t want it to be unprepared if Sherlock did indeed end up wanting to enjoy Hawaii’s _main_ attraction, so he chose a pair of navy blue shorts for the detective.

On a whim, he selected a pair of red shorts for himself, a pattern of large, white flowers breaking up the fabric. John’s cheeks had heated when he’d gone through the queue. He managed to pick up suncream in varying SPFs, already anticipating that Sherlock would likely wish to experiment with the different products and not wanting to pay island prices if he did. Little empty toiletry bottles, electronic adapters and sandals (god, John hadn’t worn a proper pair of sandals in... god knows how long) were all carefully packed into his shopping bags. 

Sherlock had of course huffed at every article of clothing that John packed for him. Pulling each item back out of the suitcase he criticized the material and the craftsmanship of each piece, not bothering to fold them back into neat squares as he put them back into the case. “And what... in the world are _these_.” Sherlock held up the pair of swim shorts, eyeing them from the front and the back and then tipped his head so he could meet John’s gaze. “No, nevermind, don’t answer that, I know what they are, the question is _why_?”

Instead of lashing out that Sherlock had undone all of his careful packing work or criticizing his single-mindedness about his destination, John had simply shrugged and said, “Well, it is Hawaii,” and left the detective with the task of fitting all of his clothes back in.

Sherlock’s foot twitched again and John prepared himself to grab the man around the shin and tug him off of the seat as he’d had just about _enough_ when he realized that the foot was no longer kicking, but rather was pressing John’s own foot back and forth. John watched as Sherlock seemingly unconsciously played footsie with him, dragging the toe of his wingtip against the side of John’s arch and then back. Eyes still focused out the window, Sherlock said, “The only redeemable bit about this is our seating arrangements. Have you ever flown first class on British Airways, John?”

He scoffed a bit of a laugh. “I’ve never flown first class at all.”

“Ah, well...” Sherlock turned to grace him with a brief smile. 

\---

Upon boarding the flight for the first leg of their journey - a nine hour trip to Vancouver - Sherlock fell immediately to sleep. Sitting perfectly straight, with his hands clasped in his lap, he looked very much like a statue, so much so that John couldn’t help sneaking a picture of him with his mobile. 

John wasn’t sure what he’d really expected when agreeing to go on this trip; a truly petulant and irritating Sherlock Holmes, that he had somewhat mentally prepared himself for. But other than the momentary kicking-spree in the car, Sherlock was thus far an ideal travelling companion. If he’d had to picture their flight to Canada, John would surely have imagined the man deducing every last one of their fellow passengers, somehow annoying the pilot, and grumbling about the food options that he didn’t even intend to eat.

But this, this quiet man next to him, taking up as little space as possible in the positively palatial seat, threw him for a bit of a loop. John pulled out a paperback and began to read but when Sherlock snuffled and rolled his head, John startled as though a shot had gone off. He turned, resigning himself to the urge to just _look_ that he’d felt the moment Sherlock had quieted and stilled. Of course he appreciated the man aesthetically, it was difficult not to. He was a marvel, dark and dashing with cheekbones that defied bone structure and lips that, well...

John bit his own bottom lip and decided not to expound on the thoughts that were spiralling through his mind at the thought of Sherlock’s lips.

He’d come to terms with the unspoken nature of their relationship after Sherlock had jumped from that building. Months and months of ‘could have, would have, should have,’ had brought him to a not-so-startling realization. Yes, he had feelings for him and yes, he was the only thing in John’s life that had made it remotely worth living. That, he supposed, was as good a reason as any to admit that he was just a shade past impossibly in love with the man.

Months ago, John had imagined having Sherlock in every way possible. In using his fingers and teeth and tongue to undo him. He tried his level best to imagine what he’d taste like, what he’d feel like, all for naught. Doubly so because he couldn’t begin to imagine a man’s body beneath his hands, nevermind someone as ethereal as Sherlock Holmes. 

Still, he imagined, he tried to describe for himself the hue of Sherlock’s eyes and the shade of his hair. 

In the endless months that Sherlock had been dead, John had spent hopeless evenings curled up in bed, concocting hopeless and pathetic scenarios in which he admitted to Sherlock all of the confusing and surprising conclusions he’d drawn. ‘I’m in love with you,’ John would have said. ‘But it’s okay that you’re not, I just want to be here.’

‘You need to know that I love you because I couldn’t live with the idea that you’d never know.’

‘Has anyone ever loved you Sherlock? Because I do. Has anyone ever loved you the way that I do?’

But John wouldn’t have said any of those things, he realized after a time. John would never have spoken one word because it was only in Sherlock’s death that he was allowed to admit all this to himself. Feeling utterly the coward, John had mourned the absence of a catharsis he would never get and after a time, stopped thinking about how much his heart hurt for the phantom loss.

And now that Sherlock was back - eight months back, in fact - John had to swallow against the painful lump in his throat whenever the detective would give him a soft look for fear that he would betray himself and ruin it all. Having Sherlock back was more than he had expected; it was something he would have to live with.

Still, watching quietly slumbering detective rustled the dormant affection wallowing hopelessly in the pit of John’s gut. Maybe it would be okay in these moments when Sherlock wasn’t present, to look upon him and love him. Maybe that would be enough.

John allowed his eyes to linger a moment longer before he turned back to his book. 

Either way, he shouldn’t be a glutton about it.

\---

They were in Vancouver airport just long enough for Sherlock to finish two cups of coffee before they boarded the final flight to their destination. Sherlock busied himself between his moleskine - making notations and folding over pages that were no longer relevant, and commenting on the utter lack of imagination of the plot of John’s book. 

John did his best to ignore him, but he had to agree, the plot wasn’t terribly interesting. Still, when he began a book, he intended entirely to finish it. With a well-placed ‘piss off’ he returned to reading while to his right, Sherlock hummed to himself and jotted away. 

It was John who fell asleep on this leg of the journey, drifting away to the constant hum of the engines. He slept a dreamless sleep and when he awoke - to the captain telling them they were approaching their descent - he found his seatbelt rebuckled and his book closed, the page where he left off dog-eared. 

John didn’t ask. Sherlock didn’t offer any sort of explanation. 

The plane landed. 

\---

They barely made it off of the jet bridge before a smiling woman, walked up to them and said, “Aloha, welcome to Honolulu.”

Grinning, John thanked her and as she held up a ring of bright flowers and placed it around his neck. When John stood up to full height he smiled over his shoulder at Sherlock who simply raised a brow between he and the woman and made no move to stoop to a proper height.

“It’s tradition,” the woman chided gently and took a step forward.

“Yeah,” John parroted, “It’s tradition.” Brushing the orchids where they fell against his chest, John looked on as the detective huffed, rolled his eyes and quickly bent forward, the welcomer tossing the lei around his neck. The contrast of the vivid purple against the pallor of skin was quite something to see.

“Aloha,” she grinned at Sherlock and then spun away, off to drape other guests with the delicate flowers.

Sherlock shrugged in his coat, twisting up his lips into an annoyed grimace. “What a waste of perfectly viable plant life.” He plucked at the flowers before allowing them to fall against his chest, switching his grimace to the other side of his mouth in distaste. 

They retrieved their luggage from the carousel, Sherlock still plucking at the flowers against his neck. “They're itchy,” he claimed.

John simply slung his carry-on over his shoulder and started for the door. “No they’re not.”

Sherlock followed close behind him wheeling his own suitcase. Upon stepping through the large, automatic doors they were hit with a gust of warm, humid air. John sucked it into his lungs, chest puffing out with the effort. He hadn’t been somewhere this warm and sunny in _ages_. Not since Afghanistan, really, and wouldn’t it be nice to be able to enjoy this sort of sunshine without being afraid he’d be getting shot at?

“Might want to take off your coat,” John suggested, leading them to the taxi queue.

Sherlock didn’t hear him, as he was too busy following with his gaze a fat, happy honey bee who had taken to flitting about and landing on his lei. 

“Bees, John,” and when he looked up the tension and aggravation was gone. In its place was a delighted smile.

John’s heart flipped.

\---

The hotel suite was lavish, to be sure, but it wasn’t so ostentatious that John felt uncomfortable. When they’d each opened the door to the suite they’d found a large, bright, modern and comfortable sitting room. Off to the right was a small, efficient little kitchenette; on the walls were subtle prints, a large, sleek LED television. 

Sherlock didn’t bother spending time taking in his surroundings, just bounded past John and threw open the door to his right. John followed, just peeked his head in and took in the furnishing. The California King bed seemed enormous in comparison to his bed at Baker Street, a modest full. John could just make out the bathroom, bright and airy - _a skylight?_ \- with what looked to be a large, deep jetted tub.

He pulled back and crossed the sitting room, sidestepping the large, squat, square coffee table and opened the door on the right. There was no need to turn on the overhead light; buttery sunlight flowed in some the large, rectangular window above his bed; a remote controlled blind was pulled all the way back, allowing John a view of bright, fluffy clouds meandering through the sky. Tossing his duffle on the bed, he allowed his rolling case to lean against the bed and stepped into his own bathroom. It looked much the same as Sherlock’s but without the natural light from above.

He smiled slightly, and flicked off the bathroom light, padding back through to the sitting room and across to Sherlock’s room.

“Exactly the same, then,” John grinned, shoulders relaxed, demeanor open and soft. “We _both_ get a jacuzzi tub? But it’s _wasted_ on you,” John huffed a little laugh and crossed to the covered walls, stride relaxed and unhurried. Mid-day sunlight oozed out around the edges and John only spared one look over his shoulder at Sherlock before he threw the curtains wide open.

They were greeted with endless blue. Small, casual waves crested and foamed against the warm, white sand, shining as the water retreated. A long stretch of sandy grass that lead up to the terrace just beyond the door, a terrace they both shared; it stretched far, across the sitting room to where John’s room was situated. A hammock was mounted between two plush palm trees that shaded the space from the hot, tropical sun. And the patio itself was outfitted with a modest glass table and welcoming lounge chairs. Large, mosaic candle holders dotted the ground and the two small end tables on either side of the veranda, a bottle of long matches just off to the side, begging to be used. 

“Mmmm, perhaps not,” Sherlock hummed and sauntered up behind him, gripped the thick wooden handles and swung the doors wide open. The salt air whipped them immediately in the face before tamping off, the sound of the ocean moving against itself filling the quiet room. 

“What?” John asked, dazzled, eyes on the sea and the sky and the sun.

“The tub,” Sherlock said by way of explanation and then slunk back into the room, leaving John to his lazy attention of the sea. John’s gaze lingered and when he turned back around, expecting to see Sherlock within the depths of the room, he was shocked to find the detective walking briskly past him, shoes abandoned, stepping out across the burnished concrete and through the beach grass.

“Where are you...” John petered off, watching as the man lingered at the edge of the grass and then stepped carefully onto the plush, inviting sand. Transfixed, John watched on as he flexed his feet, dug his toes in and turned his face up to the sun. 

“I wonder,” Sherlock called back, not bothering to turn. “How hot this sand becomes when the sun’s at its highest.”

John smiled in spite of himself. “Do you now?”

When Sherlock turned back to him, he was grinning. “I do.”

“Get back in here before you’re burnt to a crisp,” he called, even as Sherlock spun around and made his way back, curls lifting and ruffling with the slight effort of the wind. His hands moved at his cuffs, undoing the tiny buttons there, enabling him to roll his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. 

“A few moments is hardly enough, besides, I do believe you’re in possession of the suncream, are you not?” Sherlock scoffed and lifted his suitcase up onto the bed with ease, opening it to pull out his pristinely-folded clothing. John frowned at the sight; the man had torn that suitcase apart just the night prior with no regard for John’s packing job. And he’d taken the time to fold it all back in the aftermath. 

_Bastard_ , John thought as Sherlock plucked out six pairs of identical-looking socks, crossing the room to nestle them into the top drawer of the dresser. 

“Are you just going to watch me unpack?” the question came; there was humor there, laced with impatience and John wondered how the words might have sounded if they had been somewhere less palatial, somewhere less serene. If they’d been at Baskerville or Kent or Lisbon would Sherlock have sounded any different?

John crossed to the door to the main room and leaned against the wall there. “Mmm, no. I’ve my own unpacking to do,” he decided, pushing himself upright and pacing the few steps into his room. John gripped his curtains tightly in his hands and then drew them quickly apart. The burst of sunlight was a shock to his eyes but John grinned nonetheless and basked for a wonderful, lingering moment.

He stepped back to begin unpacking his own suitcase, all the while listening to the sounds of Sherlock arranging the room to his liking. There were a few shirts that needed hanging and his trousers certainly could do with an ironing, but all in all, his clothes didn’t take much time to put away.

Once done, John peeked out to ensure that Sherlock was still in his own room and then ran at his bed, throwing his arms out and diving onto it, belly bouncing against the duvet. Smiling into the mattress he toed off his shoes and allowed the breath to leave his body, sinking down into the plush bedcovers. Fingertips dug into the cotton as the last vestiges of lingering doubt and stress seeped from his body and John allowed himself to go boneless and _relax_.

He was planning of thinking of this as a proper holiday for himself. If Sherlock chose to fret about, bouncing from university to university in search of his flora sample, so be it. John intended to eat and bask in the sun and walk somewhere with absolutely no destination in mind. He harbored no hope that Sherlock would, for a moment, stop to consider this as anything other than an “informational excursion” and thus he’d packed himself books that had nothing to do with anything, tomes of fiction at which Sherlock would likely scoff. 

Groaning into the comforter, John both accepted and attempted to ignore the fact that he’d once again tethered rather inconsequential thoughts to his flatmate. Eventually he would have to come to terms with the fact that the majority of his life - conscious and not - was twined with Sherlock’s. There was no divesting himself of that bond now, that he knew. Of course, that didn’t mean that he couldn’t be overwhelmed and agitated by it.

Turning his head so his cheek rested on the bed, John glanced out the patio door to the ocean beyond and allowed his mind to ebb and drift.

Some time later, with the sun peeking through the clear glass above him, John roused from a light doze. He felt the undeniable tingle of being watched and shifted to glance at the door, shielding his eyes from the sun as he did so. Sherlock stood against the doorframe, looking at him rather clinically. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up, noting the charcoal of Sherlock’s body against the cream and ivory of the room, of the sand beyond.

The man, constantly in contrast.

He shook the fringe out of his eyes and dipped his gaze to the floor for a moment before bringing it back up to meet John’s. “Tired, already?” Sherlock asked, quietly.

“Dozed off,” John licked his lips and watched as the other man shifted on his feet. “You off, then?”

Sherlock nodded once. “I’ve some meetings; I’ll be gone the majority of the morning and afternoon. Possibly... into the evening.”

That too had been a development borne of Sherlock’s death. Without prompting, without asking, Sherlock had begun to inform John of his whereabouts at any given time. Whether via text or word of mouth, John would never go a few hours without getting an update of where his flatmate was. It soothed his anxiety more than John could express, but then, Sherlock likely knew that, having been the one to institute this new habit. 

“Right, well. I’ll have my phone on me. Not sure where I’ll get to but... find me when you’re back?” The note of hope in his voice was cloying and mocking; John’s mind helpfully supplied that Sherlock had no obligation to spend any time with him at all on this trip. 

But Sherlock’s eyes changed in that moment, shifting to something lighter, something promising. It was enough to light a gentle fervor low in John’s belly, it was enough to send a stray warmth coursing up his spine. His lips twitched as Sherlock settled his coccyx against the doorframe, hands clasped together at his waist. They stared at one another, the susurrus of the ocean reverberating off of the high ceilings.

John couldn’t help his gaze lingering on the scar just above Sherlock’s eyebrow. ‘From a bowie knife,’ Sherlock had said, months ago, when John finally snapped and had run his fingers over the slight indentation. ‘Miscalculation, he was aiming for my throat.’ His eyes held there, thought about the myriad of possibilities that knife had had, what damage it could have done.

Sherlock blinked, brought a hand up to smooth against the skin above his brow and then straightened his back, the tenderness gone from his gaze. “Of course I will.” And with that, Sherlock spun around, the whirl of his coat conspicuously absent. 

John was left just a shade flabbergasted, seated in the spot of sun that had pooled on his bed. 

\---

Though John wasn’t intimidated by the suite itself, the bathroom was a bit to take in. He’d gone in with the intent of a shower - not having examined the large glass cubicle in his first cursory pass of the room - and had paused when he realized the shower itself had twelve different sprays nestled into the river rock covered wall. 

John blinked once, twice and then examined the plethora of bath products the resort had provided him with. Expensive and delightfully-scented creams and soaps. Throwing caution to the wind, he opened the large bay window with a little shove and stood back as the salty sea breeze swept into the room. He shut off the light and undressed, folding his clothing carefully on the bench beside the window. 

And feeling just a bit devilish, stood naked in front of the window, taking in what he could make out of the sea and sand. He was elevated enough that any passersby wouldn’t catch him, but then he hadn’t seen many people walk along their part of the beach. 

Private, then. 

John twisted his lips, knowing full well that he would have to thank Mycroft for their lovely set up; the notion, while not entirely distasteful to himself, would surely upset Sherlock. Forgetting about that for the time begin, John snagged his few toiletries as well as some of the resort-provided gel and turned back to the shower.

When he turned the knob he was fully prepared to step back out of the cold spray. He was surprised to be pelted with a sluice of perfectly warm water from every direction. The sensation was rather consuming, gentle pressure from every direction.

Meticulously, ever the soldier, he soaped his hair and then his body, opting to try a bit of the lavender conditioner that he’d grabbed. He took his time, running his hands over his body, twisting this way and that, testing how each spray would hit him, lifting his arms right up to the wall to feel the water tickle at him there. 

He began to wonder if Sherlock’s room had the same shower set up. He wondered if Sherlock would bother with the stall or go straight for the tub. 

John pressed his head to the smooth rock and allowed, briefly, for his mind to wander. In his mind’s eye he pictured the three topmost sprays directed at Sherlock’s shoulders. Clearly, he visualized the warm water sluicing down over a broad chest dotted with freckles and scars. He could almost feel as the water itself, pooling in the crevices of Sherlock’s elbows, sliding along the crests of ears and slipping along the seam of his arse.

And then, and then John could nearly feel his own palms cupping strong shoulders, running through tangled, wet curls, meandering to hold a hip. John could almost _sense_ the man beneath his hands, even as he dug blunt nails into the wall. Turning his head so his temple rested against a slippery rock, he allowed his eyes to open and look out past the shower stall, past the window.

Love diffused in his chest, hot and heavy and painful and made him want for everything so desperately. It made him want for things he wasn’t even sure were possible. It made him _want_. Drove him out of his mind with _want_.

It was _impossible_ , wrong, unfathomable. But the idea of Sherlock’s body, naked and uninhibited alongside his, loving him in turn as he himself loved was one of the most compelling fantasies John had ever concocted. He sobbed with the need of it, with the sheer impossibility of it all. 

John’s eyes focused on the seam of where the ocean met the horizon as he tried desperately not to take himself in hand.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...get dressed. I'm taking you to dinner."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And heaps of gratitude bestowed upon Allison, who is brilliant and has joined my rag-tag team of betas.

The room service menu was long. John spent nearly an hour lounging on his bed, flipping idly through the pages, not really committing to anything, just perusing. Wrapped in a long, cozy robe, John shifted down in the bed, spreading the menu on his lap as he went to lower the blinds on the window above.

He managed to doze off atop the covers as he mentally tallied how long he’d been awake since they had left London. 

When he came to, there was tangerine light filtering in through the slightly-ajar patio door; he blinked into it as he emerged from the tendrils of slumber, recalling that the door had been wide open when he’d fallen to sleep. He smeared the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes and sat up, his robe falling closed over his lap as he did so.

He followed the gentle clicking sound into the sitting room to find Sherlock spread out on the couch, laptop perched on his knees. “Ah, you’re finally awake,” he mentioned without sparing him a glance. 

“Mmm, stating the obvious,” John yawned and padded into the kitchenette to locate the k-cups for the coffee maker. “You want?” John shook the tiny cup, rattling the grounds inside.

“Yes, please.”

He puttered about the kitchen for a moment and placed their mugs in the sitting room when they were ready, taking a seat in one of the large armchairs that bracketed the coffee table. The sky had morphed from a bright orange to something darker, more vivid. Red darted through with brilliant purples, a fine line of saffron against the water, rippling over the ocean as though flecked with gold. 

He felt relaxed, he felt buoyant with happiness. “This is,” John began and then rested his tongue against his lower lip, staring.

Sherlock blinked distractedly up at him, face alien and bright in the glow from the screen. “What?”

Motioning with his chin towards the patio, John broke into a stunning little grin, “The sunset. _This_... this is a sunset.”

It took a moment, but his eyes flickered to try and meet John’s gaze. When he found him staring out over the ocean Sherlock tethered his line of sight to John’s and followed it out to the ocean, to the neon-pink and the orange cream.

“How was your... did you get anything?” John asked, turning back with a smile and a sip of his coffee.

But Sherlock was still looking out past him, at the clouds, at the sky. “I... have a meeting on Tuesday with someone at the... someone from...” He trailed off and maneuvered so that he was sitting upright, hands on his knees. “Someone from Pacific Horticulture,” Sherlock mumbled eventually. “I... his name is in my mobile, somewhere, I...”

John smiled at him, curling his legs a bit tighter to the chair as he sipped his mug. They both remained silent for a bit, content to drink their coffee and watch the sunset. John couldn’t help studying the shades of purple and grey that cut across Sherlock’s face in shadow, couldn’t help the warm rush in his stomach at realizing how intimate the moment was.

Thumb sliding along the glossy handle of his mug, John allowed his attention to linger on the curve of Sherlock’s lower lip for just a beat before shaking himself out of his reverie. “Have you eaten? I was just about to order something. What, I haven’t yet decided but...”

When Sherlock dragged his eyes back, they were just the slightest bit glassy, affected. A tongue passed over his open lips and Sherlock visibly reined himself in, shaking whatever thoughts were floating behind his eyelids from his mind. A fine flush rose on his cheeks, embarrassment at his indulgence, and he cleared his throat primly. “Let’s... walk, let’s find somewhere out there.”

John’s eyes lit with surprise and he sat forward, doing a poor job of hiding the smile that was threatening to take his mouth. “That sounds like play and not work, Sherlock. It almost seems like something one might do on holiday.”

All mirth was voided from Sherlock’s expression as he stood up abruptly and slid his hands onto his hips. “Problem?”

“Not at all,” John followed suit, standing and finishing off the last dregs of his coffee. 

“Good. Get dressed. I’m taking you to dinner.”

\---

Sherlock walked closest to the water. It had come as a surprise that instead of taking the boardwalk that ran along the beachfront establishments, Sherlock had simply walked out of their room across the patio and had expected John to follow. He did, belatedly, after kicking his shoes off hastily and following him out barefoot.

John was dressed in a pair of gray slacks and a short-sleeved blue button down and he suddenly felt self-conscious about the pale hue of his skin. Even in the fading sunlight, he could tell how pasty he was in comparison to the other people meandering down the beach. Sherlock ignored him for the most part, his thumb lazily flickering down the screen of his phone, the other hand in his pocket. John was left to look his fill at the beach, the people meandering, the muted, low lights filtering over the sand from the few restaurants and bars they passed. 

When Sherlock had decided they’d reached their destination he didn’t bother alerting John, just cut across his path, eyes still focused on his mobile and walked up the beach. “Hey, a little warning would be nice,” John said as he stumbled and followed. 

Sherlock stepped up the weathered wooden steps and selected a table on the patio of the establishment before John had even made it halfway up the beach. He dug in his heels and made it up a moment later, his partner already glancing at the small menu encased in cheap plastic. “I have it on good authority,” Sherlock said as John shaked the sand out off of the cuffs of his trousers, “That this establishment has the best Onago on the island.”

John raised his brows in question.

“Snapper,” Sherlock sniffed as he placed the menu back on the table and looked out across the water. 

“Ah,” John plucked the little placard from the corner of the table.

Sherlock stretched his legs beneath the table and swung them up onto the vacant chair at John’s right. “Drinks with umbrellas in them?”

“Bet your arse,” John replied with a tightly-wrung but amused smile. 

When the waiter made his way over, John ordered a Lava Flow and Sherlock a glass of iced tea.

The man returned with a large, ceramic bowl shaped and painted like a volcano, two long, neon straws sticking out of the concoction. John laughed as it was placed in front of him and then slid it to the center of the table.

“Pardon me, pardon,” Sherlock called to the retreating waiter’s back, looking every bit the polite and relaxed patron as he plastered a humble smile on his lips. “Do you have any... tiny umbrellas for this?”

“Sherlock-”

His gaze snapped back at the man across from him as he spoke. “He needs an umbrella in his drink.” Sherlock didn’t move his eyes from John’s face as he gave a sly, smug smile.

The waiter raised his eyes, made an amused little noise and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, give me a minute.”

John rolled his eyes, but smiled as he looked down at the table. “Thank you. Thank you for that.”

As the last of the sunlight slipped over the horizon, Sherlock used a long finger to bring the unclaimed straw to his mouth and drank. The Lava Flow - as it happened - was mostly rum, very, very sweet rum and Sherlock cringed as he sucked and swallowed. “That is absolutely awful,” he sputtered but still took another sip, this time moving his straw so he was sucking from the smaller, raised inlet in the bowl. “That’s better.”

John raised a brow and moved his own straw to the inlet to test the flavor. “That... is straight rum.”

Sherlock hummed as he finished what little was left and sat back, smacking his lips. John didn’t have a chance to react to the sound because the waiter chose that moment to return with not one but two flimsy paper and cardboard umbrellas, placing them with flair in the drink. “How’s that?”

“Fantastic,” Sherlock drawled and chuckled soundlessly to himself. 

They ate their dinner slowly, not talking about much, content to watch their fellow diners and glance occasionally at the water; the moon shivered on the surface of the gentle waves, little slices of silver ebbing and flowing. The swishing of the waves over the sand served as their dinner companion, the tiki torches lining the rock path to the dining area winking at them as they were batted about in the wind.

“This is weird,” John decided, swiping his last bit of fish through a puddle of sauce. 

“Hm?” Sherlock had managed to eat half of his meal, cutting it up into miniscule bites before bringing them daintily to his mouth.

“We’re in Hawaii together. It’s... it’s strange. It feels... I don’t know.”

Sherlock took a sip of water and squinted at John in slight distaste. “You do know. _What_?”

John felt the gentle tug of the sweet alcohol in his veins. He was relaxed and open, full from dinner and just a shade sleepy. The tide was lulling him into complacency and his words just slid out, a slippery admission he might have reserved had he withheld from the drink.

“After you left,” John swiped his tongue over his lips, sat back, crossed his arms over his chest. He was proud that he’d decided on a word that described Sherlock’s absence without being purposefully hurtful. “It was as though, don’t laugh and don’t, just... don’t. The color was gone, and you came back and the color came back and we’re here and it’s so bright and I think, would it be as bright if I’d come here with anyone else but you?”

Sherlock’s hand paused midair as he was bringing his water glass to his lips. “Do you view the color red as I view the color red?”

“What?” John breathed.

Sherlock shrugged, “There’s no way to tell. No quantifiable way to know if-”

“It was rhetorical Sherlock, I didn’t mean for you to-”

“I know,” he replied quietly, eyes softening as he placed the glass back on the table. “I know. I’m... sentiment is not an area I’m versed in but it seems important that I... try.”

John blinked and set his jaw, bit at the corner of his mouth to keep from speaking, to keep all of the words inside. “Yes, well, it’s weird,” he said after a moment and moved to turn his fork down on the plate. “Like we’re on honeymoon.”

“And you, the blushing virgin,” Sherlock quipped, raising one brow in challenge as John fought with an answering laugh. 

Instead of speaking, John lifted both brows in a salacious manner; Sherlock dissolved into chuckles and relaxed back into his chair. 

\---

Sherlock retired to his room upon their arrival back at the suite; John felt invigorated after his brief nap and decided to see what the minibar had to offer. After pouring himself up a nightcap he made his way back out onto the patio. It was quiet, bordering on suspiciously serene, but he let himself be taken by the ambiance and decided to light the candles that were dotted about. 

When he sat back in the plush lounge chair he sunk in, juggling his drink after the unexpected give of the cushion. A moment later, Sherlock joined him outside, his own glass in one hand, laptop in the other. He’d changed into pajama bottoms and a thin gray cotton shirt and was still barefoot. It seemed impossible but the man somehow managed to fold himself down and sit on the ground, his glass just tinkling as it made contact with the concrete. 

John watched, his mouth upturned in a half smile. “Really?”

“What?” he asked distractedly, already typing.

John’s half smile turned into a full one as he cradled his own drink in both hands. “You’re almost relaxed. You’re on holiday, Sherlock, and you’re _enjoying_ it.”

The grunt he made was noncommittal but still, John’s cheeks hurt from the way his smile climbed. John’s eyes fell closed as he let his shoulders press back into the chair, the evening sounds of the island tickling his ears. Waves broke over the sand, the gentle crashing warring with the sound Sherlock’s fingers produced as his fingers flew over the keys.

“You can use the table, you know,” John said, peeking one eye open to glance over.

The detective made another non-committal noise and sent off an email with a flourish. Satisfied that he’d at least attempted to get Sherlock into a proper chair, he once more closed his eyes and took a long pull of his drink. His listened to Sherlock’s movements, to him getting himself more comfortable on the hard ground, listened to him pick up his own beverage, ice chiming against the side of the glass.

He couldn’t help opening his eyes and watching Sherlock’s throat working to swallow the liquid. It was indecent, the sight of the pale, smooth expanse of neck tip back. As his esophagus moved, his adam’s apple bobbed and John tried very, very hard not to imagine his throat stretching and moving in other, indecent ways. When John felt like this, when the gritty, base, sexual thoughts slid along his consciousness in attempt to rile him, he tempered them with thoughts even more damning.

Imagining the man’s lips on his cock was fine as long as John reminded himself that he _loved_ , and _desperately_ so, and then it wasn’t so terrible. When he thought about taking Sherlock’s own cock in his mouth he was quick to remember it wasn’t simply for his own gratification, but to cause Sherlock _pleasure_ , to prove with lips and teeth and tongue the depth of every last shred of affection he felt for him. 

He cleared his throat and while still reclining said, “Honestly, I’d have expected you to be down at the local station, bugging the coppers.”

“Yes, well,” drawled Sherlock, hitting the ‘delete’ key several times in rapid succession. “You have once again anticipated my behavior incorrectly.” Though the words could have been spoken harshly, Sherlock padded the intent with a genuine, affectionate curl of his lips. “I’m perfectly fine just here, thank you.”

John smiled and his eyes slid open; when he peered over at Sherlock his fingers were resting on the keyboard and his focus was on the darkened sky before them. The stars twinkled coyly but clearly, brilliantly luminous against the velvet of the evening sky.

Sherlock watched the sky and John watched the man, face in stark profile.

The salty air tossed about a bit of Sherlock’s hair, two curls intertwined. They flipped and quivered in the wind. John watched the strands dance about in the candlelight for a spell as it highlighted the slight flecks of red in the strands. Sherlock dipped his head and began typing once again, the wind continuing to tousle his hair in the most enticing manner. When he’d had enough, when he couldn’t handle the unruliness of it all, John slid his hand against Sherlock’s scalp and smoothed the tresses down against his skull.

Sherlock’s typing stopped abruptly, fingers hovering over the keys; he remained seated and still as John’s fingers moved once more against the scalp beneath, nails teasing over the skin. “John?” his name tumbled out of Sherlock’s mouth; he sounded shaken and a bit scared and it caused John’s hand to still.

“Hm? This okay?”

Sherlock waited a moment and John wished that he could see his eyes. It took a beat more but Sherlock resumed typing and hummed low in his throat. So John slid his digits down until his palm was against the head beneath him, resting there a moment before dragging them back up. 

A moment later, he tilted his head into John’s palm, scooted himself ever so slightly closer to John’s chair and leaned into the petting. Tilting his head upwards, Sherlock’s eyes slid closed though his fingers did not stop tapping at the laptop. John’s nails skimmed along Sherlock’s scalp, pausing now and again to twirl a bit of hair around his finger and gently tug. 

Moving his palm to the back of his head he twined every one of his fingers tightly into Sherlock’s tresses and slowly tugged his hand away. The moan that Sherlock emitted was low and breathy and sent a delicious thrill up John’s spine. He did it again just to see and the laptop slid off of Sherlock’s legs and skittered over the even concrete.

This time, the noise was more akin to a purr being raked over gravel. John pressed his fingertips down against the root of Sherlock’s hair and then allowed the hair to slide out from between his digits. “Still okay?” John asked, just because he wanted to hear Sherlock, just wanted to hear the tenor of his voice as he did this delightfully intimate thing.

“Yes, hmmmm, very... okay,” and he smeared his cheek against John’s wrist where it had stilled. Sherlock gave up all pretense of sending emails and scooted over to set himself in front of John’s chair, in the vee of his thighs. He spread his legs out in front of him and leaned back, the longest strands of hair just brushing the thickening bulge in John’s trousers.

He closed his eyes and appeared to be waiting for John’s hand to return. He shivered ever so slightly when John leaned forward, set his drink down and sank both of his hands into Sherlock’s hair. His fingers glanced over temples and rubbed, errant thumbs meandering down to press against cheekbones. He massaged the base of Sherlock’s skull with his knuckles, employing all of the techniques he remembered for reducing stress and relieving migraines.

Thumbpads applied pressure just above Sherlock’s eyebrows and the man emitted a humid little sigh, mouth falling open in appreciation of the gesture. John spent long moments there, smoothing out the wrinkles on Sherlock’s brow before locating the dimples behind his ears; he applied pressure there in short increments, a few seconds on, a few off before he went back to his previous ministrations, simply running his fingers across the man’s scalp.

Sherlock’s shoulders began to go slack as he sagged completely boneless against the chair. “Don’t fall asleep now,” John chided, his throat tight with want. “Your back will never forgive you.”

“Not ‘sleep,” the detective drawled and yet made no effort to move away.

“Hmmm, yes you are,” John murmured through a smile. “If I’d known this would put you under I’d have done it ages ago.”

With a minimum of effort, Sherlock shook his head and managed a weak, “No,” before succumbing once more to John’s hands. 

John sighed heavily through his nose and felt the tight ball of affection in his chest move and shift with the effort. He was nearly certain that he was enjoying this as much as Sherlock was; watching the man indulging in something that was causing him so much pleasure was a gift. He’d never seen Sherlock so completely unguarded. The level of trust was so that John was sure he could lean forward and sink his teeth into the man’s neck if he wanted to.

And the brain, the brain beneath his hands, that he was being allowed to care for and give pleasure to its delicate casing was so intensely gratifying that John had to shut his eyes against it all. “Thank you for dinner,” John managed. “It was lovely. Just being here is... nice. Very nice.”

“‘Course. Wouldn’t go away without you again,” Sherlock whispered, his head lolling so that his temple was resting against John’s lower thigh. 

John’s hands stilled against Sherlock’s head and he just held him there, cradled the fragile skull between his hands and sucked in a few, steadying breaths. “Sherlock,” John said in earnest. “ _Thank_ you.”

“Mmmph,” Sherlock said, his mouth against the linen of John’s trousers.

He couldn’t help but laugh at that and relaxed back into his own seat, enjoying Sherlock’s warmth and proximity. “You’re the most extraordinary person I know and I’d prefer not to be without you again.”

Sherlock snuffled and settled and they were both quite content to sit and bask in one another’s presence, in the salty sea air, in the _calm_.

But then Sherlock’s laptop pinged with a low battery warning and the fragile cocoon they’d managed to construct ran through with fissures and collapsed.

“You should sleep,” John said, sitting up straight in the chair, reaching down to arrange himself in his pants before Sherlock could take note of his state. He momentarily panicked over such a response, shocked that such a gesture could cause him to be so aroused. Just his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. What, he wondered, would happened if he placed his hands on Sherlock’s bare chest or his mouth to the detective's mouth.  
Dear _lord_ , would he simply burn up?

John set his jaw and squared his shoulders and turned his attention to the man at his side. Sherlock too straightened, shook the sleep from his upper body and yawned. “And you?”

“Have to account for jetlag,” and John too found himself yawning, digging his fingernails into his thigh for a moment to curb the edge of his arousal. “And that bed is _marvellous_.”

“As is mine,” Sherlock said as he uncurled, didn’t meet John’s eyes. The man twined his fingers and then brought them over his head, stretching and cracking his back.

“What’s on for you for tomorrow then?” John gathered his glass and pushed the chair back in to the table, stepping inside the sitting room; Sherlock followed, placing down his drink and computer to slide the huge doors closed. 

John padded to the doorway to his room and turned hips twisted just so as to hide the slight bulge, waiting for Sherlock to speak. He took in the rumpled, sleepy man in front of him and his stomach flipped. He ran a hand through the hair at the back of his head and yawned, blinked blearily at John. “I’ve a meeting on Tuesday. Tomorrow is Monday.”

“...Yes...”

“Well?” Sherlock asked, waiting for John to catch on. “What’s on for tomorrow.”

“Oh,” John fumbled dumbly, head still swimming with want. “Oh! I was... probably going to see about going down to the beach and just... reading one of those novels you keep reminding me are horrible. You know, lay about.” For some reason, John felt his cheeks heat and he rolled his shoulder so he was deeper into his room, face partially hidden in shadow.

Sherlock nodded slowly and walked into his room, flicking his wrist in a dismissive gesture. “Fine.” He closed the door until it was ajar only a crack and John was left to ponder what ‘fine’ _meant_ exactly. 

He did an about-face and went into his own room, closing the door very quietly behind him. John heaved a few breaths in through his nose, willing his blood to cool, willing his desire to ebb. Pressing his teeth into his bottom lip be bit until he felt an edge of pain and kept it there, present, for long minutes, sitting on the edge of his bed. 

There was no discomfort there, no confusion or fright; instead, he accepted his body’s response with a slight amount of annoyance at the inevitable. Still, at forty he did wish he could control it somewhat better and vowed to be more aware of his own body’s responses to Sherlock’s when he was in his presence. _Honestly_.

He got himself ready for bed, opened his room door to the patio so he could hear the waves as he rested his head on the pillow. Instead of examining his increasing sexual attraction to his flatmate and his uncharacteristic reactions, John found himself thinking about the man, stretched out between the two seats, sipping from John’s sugary cocktail, actually eating dinner without prompting. Sherlock had been.. nice during dinner. Carefree, relaxed. He’d been unguarded when they’d sat together, had allowed John to touch him, affectionately and intimately. John wasn’t sure what to think about that. What did that _mean_?

Just a day ago in the cab to the airport Sherlock had seemed to be dreading the trip; John couldn’t have imagined even the dinner portion of their evening being so lazy as it had. Climbing into bed, John slipped beneath the covers and drew them up to his chest. Today he’d been startlingly open and soft; he’d struck John as being at quarter-speed. Beautiful, the same Sherlock, the very same and yet malleable around the edges.

It gave John such a strong stab of pure hope that he shoved his face into the pillow and huffed out a frustrated breath. It was too much, too much to consider at this late hour with the man just two rooms away.

Thoughts buzzed behind his eyes but John willed them away; he’d ponder all of this out when he was back in London.

\---

When he awoke it was to a light breeze and delightful, cheery sunlight, spilling from the patio into his room. John stretched beneath the sheets, straightened them where they were tangled at his waist and breathed in a sigh, content to have a bit of a lie in for the time being.

As he woke fully, the scent of coffee has had him perking up and glancing over at the door to his room.

Sherlock Holmes stood there dressed in navy swim trunks and nothing else. John’s jaw slackened and he couldn’t help that his eyes trailed from the tip of the man’s toes, up, up, to the tallest curl on his head. “How long have you been standing there,” grateful that he’d just woken up, his voice low and gravelly.

“Long enough,” Sherlock pushed off the doorframe and set a mug on John’s bedside table. “But the coffee is still warm.”

John took a sip and eyed him warily. “You’re acting odd,” he finally said, meeting Sherlock’s gaze head on.

“Oh? How so?”

John screwed up his mouth in annoyance and shimmied so he was sitting upright. “Last night, this morning, I-”

“I’m acting strange?” Sherlock huffed a laugh in disbelief. “You gave me a _scalp_ massage last night!”

“You let me!” John returned, a flush of irrational anger tinting his words. 

“I was enjoying it,” Sherlock said, placing his mug alongside John’s and crossing his hands over his chest. “You asked me if it was alright and I said yes, I was under the assumption that it was something you _wished_ to do. Why did you continue on, then?”

“Because I’ve always wanted to,” John found himself saying, digging his fingers into the fitted sheet beneath him. “I have. I _was_...”

Sherlock’s eyes darkened a fraction, his arms slackening over his front. “Hmm?”

John bit his bottom lip and pulled back the sheets. “Dear lord. It’s... too early for this. I’m going to have a shower and then we might...” He nudged his head in the direction of the ocean and walked briskly into the bathroom, shutting the door with a practiced effort behind him.

He took two deep breaths through his nose and allowed his eyes to fall closed just as Sherlock shouted, “Well be quick about it, you’ll need to put sun cream on my back!”

John groaned audibly and went to the shower, hoping that the scalding spray would wash his thoughts clean.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I want you to want.”

“It does seem rather pointless that you would shower before going down to the water,” Sherlock said, laptop tucked under one arm, mobile phone and towel in the other. “You’ll have one after, as well.” The sand was hot beneath their feet and John hastened across the short expanse to the little copse of palms that ran along the edge of the beach grass.

“Shut up,” John muttered, toting his book, a towel and the room service menu in one arm. In the other he carried the ice bucket from the suite in which he’d jammed three bottles of water. It was cumbersome, but he didn’t fancy another trip back up the hot beach to the room. 

Sherlock shrugged and pressed his posh sunglasses higher onto the bridge of his nose. “It’s not good for your skin.”

“You know, when you mentioned wanting to come down to the beach with me I thought ‘something new for Sherlock to try, how exciting!’ I’m beginning to rethink that.”

His scoff was amused. “I _have_ been on a beach before, John. My family did vacation in the south of France.”

“Of course they did.”

“It was absolutely miserable, for weeks on end. Being surrounded by _family_ and not just Mother and Father and Mycroft, no. Holmes children from all over Europe. It was horrendous. The Swiss faction especially.” They stopped walking once they reached an area of the beach with sets of lounge chairs; there were a few dozen, all spaced apart just enough that groups would not disturb others. The detective chose one of the pairs at the front of the cluster, the chairs situated beneath a cheerful, striped umbrella. After placing his electronics on the small table between them he meticulously spread his towel over the lounge chair and folded himself into it.

John followed suit, deliberately avoiding glancing over at Sherlock.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t _enjoy_ the ocean, you see,” Sherlock said, already sliding his laptop onto his thighs and powering it up.

“And yet you don’t know that it’s rather out of the ordinary to bring one’s computer around sand and water.”

“I can do the work here just as well as anywhere,” Sherlock waved him off dismissively and levered his sunglasses to rest atop his head, leaving John to open the menu and peruse the breakfast offerings. John rolled his eyes and took off his shirt, folding it neatly into a square and placing it on the table.

They sat in silence for a few moments, John making decisions about their breakfast choices and Sherlock managing to connect to the hotel’s wifi network with a few short clicks. Pressing the laptop halfway closed, Sherlock sat up and spared John a quick glance before sliding his sunglasses back over his eyes. 

He stared at John expectantly before he finally spoke. “Sun cream is most effective when applied fifteen minutes prior to sun exposure,” Sherlock said, swinging his legs off of the chair, presenting John suddenly with his back. 

John blinked at him once, twice and couldn’t think of a reason to object; the man obviously couldn’t put it on _himself_ and there was really no other option. John too swung his legs until he was in a sitting position - his knees just brushing the center of the detective’s back - and his mind was abuzz with a million different thoughts but he couldn’t manage to sort any of them out. 

He plucked the bottle of cream out of the pocket of his swim trunks and poured some of the cool liquid out onto his palms. 

“Planning on leaving the shade, then?” John asked evenly, willing his hands to stop trembling as he brought his hands up to Sherlock’s shoulders. Breathing a harsh but silent breath through his nose he settled his slippery hands on the strong expanse of the man’s skin. Sherlock simply perked a brow and opened the laptop and kept on typing; he didn’t give John an answer..

Squeezing his eyes shut, he drew his palms down the length of back, over his spine and along his sides, pausing to pour more out when needed. Sherlock’s back, it seemed, went on for _ages_ and John strove not to take his time but rather to be methodical and detached. The muscles moved beneath his hands, nearly rippling at the application of pressure and John slammed his eyes shut and tried to regain some sense of balance.

But the skin, so much skin. Naked and warm and pale skin stretched over acres of bone; John cursed Sherlock for asking him to do this, cursed himself for being unable to refuse Sherlock. John’s fingers slid along the tops of his shorts, dipping just slightly beneath to ensure the cream was adequately applied and then tore his hands away as though burned. Vaguely, John wondered when he became like this, so blatantly aware of Sherlock’s body, so wanton for it.

Sherlock swung his legs back up onto the chair smoothly and settled back, glancing at John just once before popping his glasses over his eyes. “Thank you,” he said as he resumed typing. “Will you need me to do you?”

John swallowed and glanced down at the bottle in his hand. He wasn’t sure how he would fare if Sherlock’s bare hands touched his skin, not after having his hands all over the man’s body. “I...” he managed a little croakily, leaning over to snatch Sherlock’s mobile from the table. “Am all set.”

“You’re sure then?” He sounded so brazenly innocent that it caused John’s attention to perk. “You’re prone to tan after your time in the desert but the UV index is abnormally high today.”

John blinked at him, fingers paused over the numbers of Sherlock’s phone, considering. That the man would be so considerate and vocal about it. “What are you doing?”

“Hmmm?” Sherlock attempted ignorance, but his response sounded a shade interested and John seized on it.

“With the acting odd, you’re acting bizarre again.”

He paused in his typing. “I’m concerned about the well being of your dermis and that immediately characterizes me as odd?”

“Since when do you give a toss about sun cream? You’re... vain but I doubt you’ll leave the shade of this umbrella. What are you on about?”

“What?”

John, frustrated, screwed up his face and turned his attention back to the phone. “Never... nevermind. I’m ordering food, is there anything in particular you want?”

Sherlock hummed to himself and managed a distracted, “No.”

“Keep in mind I’m going to have you eat, so it might as well be something you enjoy.” There was a note of sarcastic humor in John’s voice as he attempted to decide if he needed a side of bacon or not. Best not, he didn’t want to spoil lunch and it was already later in the morning. 

Sherlock frowned, paused in his typing and responded rather haughtily. “Waffles, with strawberries then.”

“Waffles... with strawberries,” John repeated and, deciding that Sherlock’s choice sounded much more delicious and indulgent than his choice of fresh fruit and toast, amended his own breakfast to french toast with caramelized bananas. He called it in, adding hurriedly before disconnecting, “And a pitcher of mimosas!”

He settled back into his chair and settled the menu down onto the sand. “Can’t believe they just... bring you food down on the beach,” John said, dropping Sherlock’s mobile back onto the table.

“Yes,” Sherlock drawled sarcastically seemingly disinterested in their order. “The marvels of modern hospitality.”

And yet when the food came, Sherlock tucked in with gusto, leaning towards his plate and dragging pieces of toasted dough through pools of syrup. He stabbed the strawberries with an eagerness that took John by surprise and he paused in cutting into his own breakfast to watch. Honestly, this was too much, watching the man _eat_ and having a reaction to it.

John rolled his eyes at himself and filled his mouth with enough toast that it was difficult to chew. They both held their plates in their laps, leaning over their food in a manner that was rather impolite but John figured as long as they were on vacation it didn’t much matter. Torquing his body, he poured out a mimosa for himself, turning back to his breakfast without sparing Sherlock a glance.

A moment later, Sherlock poured himself a tall glass and brought it to his mouth without complaint. “Holiday, John, correct?” he asked and swallowed half of the cocktail in two quick gulps and then broke into a mocking grin. Again, John rolled his eyes - for a brief instant he worried if he could strain his ocular nerve if he kept it up - and delved back into his meal like a starving man. 

It felt extravagant and odd to be eating breakfast food, covered in sugar and sticky syrup on a beach; it felt downright silly, like they were breaking unwritten rules or turning a blind eye to beach etiquette. The toast felt heavy on his tongue, soaked in butter and syrup and John savored the flavor. He rarely ate like this at home, opting instead for utilitarian tea and jammy toast. But, as this was a _holiday_ , he decided then and there to break all of his normal meal and beverage conventions. To punctuate his thought he finished his mimosa and poured another.

When he was through he noticed Sherlock’s glass, being held across the short distance between them while the man didn’t bother to spare him a glance. He was still tapping away at the keyboard with his free hand.

It was three mimosas and five chapters later that John realized he had quite a decent buzz on. He sat up a bit more rigidly in his chair, noting the increased glare off of the water and the pleasant, fuzzy feeling in his head and grinned. Yes, slightly intoxicated just shy of afternoon was _definitely_ something people did on holiday. 

John stood and stretched, head just barely brushing the umbrella as he did so. His gaze was drawn to Sherlock, who’d stopped typing and was perusing whatever text was in front of him. John made out the slight flush on Sherlock’s cheeks, his empty glass and his nearly empty plate. Yes, Sherlock was on holiday too and seemed to be hesitantly embracing it, even as he worked. 

“Hey,” John said quietly.

Sherlock said nothing but after a moment, swung his chin and met John’s gaze, sunglasses low on his nose.

“When was the last time you took a break, an actual vacation?”

“Pardon?”

“Stopped working. I’m quite sure your answer is going to be never but- was there ever a point before all of this when you just picked up and went somewhere and relaxed? Played it all by ear?” John’s hands were on his hips but his demeanor was open and soft.

Sherlock blinked up at him and considered. 

He sniffed to himself and his eyes flicked to look just over John’s right shoulder. “I once bought a train ticket to Prague and... went.”

“How old were you?” he shot back immediately, softly.

“Twelve.”

“You went to Prague on your own at twelve?”

Sherlock shrugged and closed the laptop slowly. “No one missed me.”

His voice held no hint of emotion or sadness but John felt a bleak little sorrow crash into him; no one had noticed Sherlock had left home - or rather and more likely school - for days? Suddenly, he was met with the mental image of a gangly, lonely boy, glancing forlornly out the window of a passenger train, wanting to be anywhere but whatever posh boarding school his parents had likely sent him away to. John felt a clenching in his chest, wanted desperately to lean over and grasp the man’s hands and tell him that he’d never be lonely again. Instead, he said, “Yeah, was Prague nice?”

Sherlock glanced back out at the water as the corner of his mouth quirked in a tiny smile. “It was beautiful.”

John smiled along with him, at the sight of Sherlock obviously lost in a pleasant memory. “Right, well, this is your second vacation, then, even if you are technically _working_ during it, so I’m going to see to it that you do things that people do when they’re on break, yeah?”

Sherlock took a long, deep breath and turned so that he was facing John once more; he placed his laptop on the table and placed their discarded shirts over it. “Alright.”

“Yeah?”

Sherlock hesitated and then gave a miniscule nod. “Yes.”

“Right! Good. Then... let’s go swimming.”

There was a beat and then, unsure, “Swimming...”

“Surely you can swim, you’ve got a swimmer’s body,” John commented easily. It took him a moment for his mind to catch up with his mouth and felt his cheeks heat. “Well... you, erm, you know what I mean.”

Sherlock screwed his mouth into a disbelieving smirk. “Indeed.” He stood and took off his glasses, placing them carefully on the chair. “You’ll need to put on sun cream.”

John bit his lip and stepped out of his flip flops and abandoned the shade the umbrella was throwing. “I’m fine, I... dealt with that after my shower.” Sherlock raised a brow but did not object or comment, instead stepping out of his own sandals and walking towards the water.

John watched him for a moment - back muscles moving beneath skin so pale that it was almost painful to look at in the bright sunlight - and then followed. _You’re risking melanoma because you’re so wound up that if he touches you you’re afraid you’ll pop off to the moon_ , John’s inner voice taunted. 

Heaving an annoyed sigh, John called out, “Wait, I... put it on.”

“Excuse me?” Sherlock called back, shielding his eyes from the sun even as he gave a self-important grin. 

“Just, just put the cream on my back and shut your mouth,” John said, shoulders slumping as the detective walked jauntily up the beach towards him. “I’m serious,” John repeated once Sherlock reached him. “Not a word.”

“Oh no,” Sherlock breezed as he leaned over to snatch the bottle off of John’s chair. “I applaud your decision to take your skin’s health into consideration. Now, turn around.” Sherlock covered him in the cream, quickly and methodically, not pausing to linger on John’s skin. The doctor was thankful for it; the even, intent strokes held no tremor of affection but were rather clinical and _still_ , something in John’s stomach was stirred up. 

He finished up with a brush of his fingertips on John’s shoulders before leaning in and asking in a rather low voice, “Wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

“You’re missing the whole ‘shut it’ part,” John grumbled but stood, shot Sherlock a quick glare and took off for the ocean with quick steps. 

John ignored Sherlock’s call of, “Fifteen minutes _before_ sun exposure!”

He walked into the ocean, relaxing as the warm water lapped above his calves; he’d forgotten the ocean could be so blissfully tepid. He walked until the water was up around his stomach and then dove under a small wave.

The water enveloped him and John twisted beneath the surface, moving his body along the bottom, scraping his knees on the sand. When he came up for air, Sherlock was already meters past him, arms cutting through the water with ease as he swam. John stood and watched, salt water running into his eyes. Perhaps it was that the mimosas had gone to his head, but he swore the man’s body shimmered ethereally in the sunlight.

Feeling utterly defeated and just a bit tipsy, John allows himself to fall backwards into the water, letting the waves take him as he drifted in silence. 

He wasn’t sure how long he remained in the water, floating aimlessly, watching Sherlock zigzag back and forth amongst the waves, his form perfect. _Of course, of course he’s an actual bloody swimmer,_ John’s mind grudgingly noted as he watched the man pause and turn over to float on his back.

He closed his eyes, feeling the alcohol sway in his veins and when he opened them again, the sun lower in the sky, Sherlock was walking up the beach, wringing water from his hair.

\---

Back at the suite, Sherlock tossed himself onto the sofa, mindless of his wet hair or trunks, simply sprawled out and tucked a pillow under his head.

John smiled, licked his lips and flicked his gaze to the floor. “Tired? It’s not even half-two!”

“Yes, well, while you were content to laze about in the water I swam several miles.”

“Not very holiday,” John chastised on a laugh.

“Simply because I’m on _holiday_ doesn’t mean I can let my fitness regime falter.”

“Yes, right, couldn’t do that,” John drawled sarcastically, flopping down on the opposite end of the lengthy sofa.

Sherlock tossed an arm over his eyes. “Says the man who can hardly keep up with me.” The man shimmied down on the sofa until his knees were spread across John’s thighs; he didn’t bother to move otherwise. “Maybe go for a _jog_ now and again and you wouldn’t be... gasping after me all of the time.”

John twisted his mouth in annoyance and clapped his hands down on Sherlock’s calves because they were right there, before him. _On_ him.”Yes, well, you’ve longer legs.”

As though to prove the point, Sherlock lifted his legs and allowed them to fall back into John’s lap. “Mmm, no. That’s not the reason.”

“Shut up,” John said, good naturedly and stroked his thumb over Sherlock’s tibia and looked out over the water at the stunningly clear blue sky. He didn’t bother fighting it when his eyelids got heavy and fell, didn’t fight it when Sherlock’s legs nudged into his stomach and he wrapped his hands around them, holding the man there against him.

He dreamt vaguely of a clear white sandy desert, the only other dot of color a tousle of ebony hair, walking away, away from him no matter how fast he moved. He walked for ages, imagined that he’d walk for ages more, until he caught up. He’d walk forever, John knew it deep within his bones, even in his dreamscape. 

A movement at his hips roused him, tugged him gently awake; the sound of soft waves and faint laughter tickled his ears and he allowed his eyes to remain closed a moment longer, relishing in the unfamiliar but soothing susurrus. Lids fluttering open and he looked down and found Sherlock glancing up at him; he blinked, twice. Coming fully awake, he realized his right hand was tangled in Sherlock’s hair and he gently extricated it. “You’re in my lap,” John croaked uselessly.

“Yes.” Sherlock stated, speaking as though he was well aware of where he was. “Warmer here.”

“Right.” He passed his tongue over dry lips. “Right.” Sherlock gave no explanation as to how he’d come to have his head in John’s lap and John didn’t ask. He wasn’t sure if he was frightened of the answer or if he was frightened that Sherlock would _move_ if he asked the question.

Instead he asked, “Time is it?”

Clear eyes held on his face as Sherlock spoke, “Quarter past six.”

John barked out a laugh, “We slept for four hours?” He rolls his neck against the back of the sofa, “Not looking forward to standing up.” John could imagine how his lower back would scream at him when he did. 

Sherlock blinked. “Neither am I.” Their gazes held and John felt a softness open up inside of him, felt his mouth curving into an easy and affectionate smile. For a moment, John wished his hand was still in the man’s hair so he could have an excuse to stroke him with tenderness. That’s all he wanted to do, was touch Sherlock tenderly and watch him respond and unfurl.

The moment was broken when Sherlock swung his legs off of the couch and sat up, dragging his hands through his hair to tame it. “I’ll be back in a bit, have to pick up a packet,” he didn’t explain any further but paused before getting to his bedroom. “Order dinner, I don’t care what.” And with that the man disappeared.

John stretched himself out as best he could and went to find where he’d dropped the room service menu. 

\---

They ate their dinner in relative silence on the patio, Sherlock refilling their wine glasses when they neared empty. John had ordered up a bottle of malbec to accompany their meals, a bottle more expensive than he’d even think to purchase back home, even for a special occasion.

It was undeniably romantic; they’d been forced to light the candles in order to keep the insects at bay. Between the flickering candlelight and the muted castoff from the suite, everything looked soft and gentle. “Haven’t seen you this... still in awhile,” John noted, spearing a piece of broccoli and waving it in Sherlock’s direction.

Sherlock’s eyes flashed to John’s as he pushed a grain of rice around his plate. “Thinking.”

“Ah,” and it was the only thing spoken for a very long time. They finished their meals slowly; even the detective seemed to be enjoying his char siu and had stolen a few pieces of John’s chicken. John settled back in his chair and watched Sherlock scooped the last bit of rice onto his fork and put it in his mouth. 

“Want the rest of mine?” John chuckled and Sherlock’s eyes flashed something lovely and soft.

“No,” he breathed, also settling back in his chair. “Thank you.” He gazed at John over the top of his glass as he took a dainty sip. “This wine is good, order another bottle.”

“It was sixty-seven dollars,” came John’s chuckle. 

Sherlock smiled wolfishly, “Mycroft’s dime.”

“That’s terrible,” John chastised through a fit of laughter.

Sherlock looked away for a moment and then back at John. “I am not exaggerating when I tell you that he both can afford it and _owes_ me.” At that, John didn’t ask any other questions, just called the concierge and ordered another bottle to the room. 

They sat, both glancing out over the water and said nothing, just finishing the last of the wine in their glasses. After a time, Sherlock got up and disappeared into his room, half a glass dangling from his fingertips as he went. John turned and watched as the detective went, then undertook the arduous task of placing their empty plates outside of the front door of their suite. 

He brought the bottle of wine in and poured, holding both the empty bottle and the glass, wondering what to to do with himself. He retrieved the new bottle when it was delivered, gave the man a hearty tip and refreshed his glass. He puttered about aimlessly; John straightened his meager store of clothing and washed up their coffee mugs from the day previous. He was about to resign himself to settling in for whatever was on television when Sherlock called out to him. 

“John, come here!” The voice sounded muffled and John took a step towards Sherlock’s room to determine where it was coming from. There was a sound of water sloshing around and then silence, save for a few, tiny splishes. 

He breathed a careful little sigh through his nose and glanced up at the ceiling, centering himself.

“Sherlock,” he called. “You’re in the bath! I...”

“More wine!” he demanded and then, after a moment, “Please!”

John slid the bottle between his fingers, dangling it at his side as he padded through the darkened bedroom and toed open the bathroom door. “And so you are using the tub, proving me wrong. Again.”

“Hmmm, yes. Wine,” he demanded again, tapped his glass against the edge of the tub. His arm was loose and relaxed, head lolled back against the lip of the large basin. Sherlock had his eyes closed and his hair was damp and curling even moreso than usual at the tips. John breathed out and looked his fill, right down into the water at the dark thatch of hair at the apex of the man’s thighs.

“Jesus,” John breathed and, with a shaky hand, poured him out another glass of wine.

“What?” Sherlock breathed, bringing the glass to his lips without opening his eyes.

John screwed his eyes closed and wrapped his palm around the bottle so tightly that he was afraid it might shatter. “You know what.”

“Ah,” came Sherlock’s languid reply. He peeked one eye open and John caught the pupil, blown wide and gorgeous, before the lid came down again. “Stay.”

John didn’t question it, he just sank down onto the floor across the room from Sherlock and leaned his head back against the towels, bringing the bottle to his lips, etiquette be damned. “Alright.”

Sherlock smiled at him and then closed his eyes, leaning down further in the warm water. John watched him for a moment before turning to glance out the window; the moon reflected itself off of the waves and he was hypnotized by the sight of them rolling in and disappearing. He took another drag from the nearly-empty bottle.

The detective turned to look at him and John flashed him a brief, nervous smile. Sherlock pulled his other hand and draped it over the other side of the tub and sighed.

“I’m not the one acting bizarrely,” the detective said after a time, a small little splash coming after his words.

John took a quick little sip from the bottle, feeling positively sixteen again for a moment. “What’s that?”

“You’ve been avoiding me, acting on edge, have I done something? No, strike that, I haven’t done a thing. I’ve done everything you’ve asked. I’ve given in to being on holiday, I’m relaxed. It’s not my actions then, not me. What’s different with you then, John. What am I not seeing?”

The mere fact that Sherlock was conceding that he’d missed something knocked the breath from John’s lungs. Sherlock ticked his head back and forth in thought, narrowing his eyes as he considered that various reasons behind John’s behavior. “No,” he ticked a possible reasoning mentally off of the list.

The critical glance he shot John made him feel both shuttered and undone and he squirmed against the unforgiving tile floor. He couldn’t run away now, couldn’t possibly remove himself from Sherlock’s scrutiny without giving himself entirely away.

His voice was soft and tinged with curiosity when he spoke again, “What is it John? What are you keeping from me?”

John held his tongue at the corner of his mouth and thought about lying. He pondered the idea of getting up and walking out and let everything that they had been tentatively building, cautiously brushing with, crumble to nothing. 

But it was cracking him, it was breaking him down, causing fissures to form in the careful defenses he’d steadfastly built in the first few weeks of Sherlock’s return. “I want things, Sherlock,” John said eventually, staring hopelessly at the ceiling, thanking whatever deities were about that wine had loosened his tongue because the weight those words alleviated was enormous.

“Things...” It wasn’t a question, but as though Sherlock was testing the word on his tongue.

John rolled his eyes at himself, at his inability to explain any of the complexities of his feelings for this man. “Things that... you don’t want, that you’re... I just...” he looked down at his lap, shot Sherlock’s languid form a glance and then hung his head. “Sorry.”

“I want you to want.” The words came clear as crystal, ringing against the bathroom tile and John felt them sing through his head, beat insistently upon his eardrums. He licked his lips and twisted his head against the wall, glancing at Sherlock from under his lashes begging John silently, _Do you understand_?. 

“Christ, I...” He felt a large lump in his throat - terror and want and sorrow and anticipation - and he struggled to swallow against it. There was a thickness to his tongue; that would be the apprehension and the wine. “This is... you are...”

“Speak, John,” Sherlock implored breathily.

“I can’t, I... I can’t. Not now, like this,” he flicked against the glass wine bottle with his nails, causing a gentle tinkling. 

Sherlock sat up in the tub, revealing his wet, glistening chest to John’s hungry eyes. "Will you have the courage in the morning? Will you have the courage at all, John? You're the bravest man I know and yet you shy from this."

John blinked and set the empty bottle on the floor and stood.

“Will you be brave tomorrow, John?” Sherlock glanced up at him, eyes sparkling in the low light. John swore he saw hope lingering there alongside the dogged determination Sherlock always had when trying to prove himself right. “Will you be brave for _this_?”

John bit his bottom lip hard between his teeth. “Christ Sherlock, I don’t... I don’t know.” 

When he hurried from the room he felt like the epitome of cowardice.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You,” Sherlock rumbled, moving until he was standing just before John, “are a marvel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allison, Felicia, I want to make out with the both of you very much.

When John awoke the following morning, he was faced down against his pillow and had a mouth so dry it hurt to open it. He fumbled blindly for the bottle of water he was sure he’d left on the beside table and sighed when he finally managed to grasp it. John flopped over and shimmied until his back was against the pillows; he cracked the bottle and downed half of the water before pulling the bottle away.

He slumped low, replacing the cap and searched the bed for where he’d left his phone. It was nowhere in the vicinity and John searched his brain for where he might have left it. Levering himself out of bed, he shielded his eyes from the harsh glare of the sun and padded out into the sitting room. His mobile was on the coffee table and when he bent to reach for it, his skin pulled and stretched.

He’d fallen asleep before thinking to take a shower and between the wine and the salt, he felt positively like sandpaper. With a few clarifying blinks, he unlocked his phone and was met with two text messages:

_Out for the day. SH_   
_Unsure when I’ll return. SH_

John acknowledged his relief at not having to face his flatmate after such a blatant display of raw emotion the night previous. Honestly, he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to face him at all whilst nursing his low-grade hangover. Dragging himself back to his room, John stripped, letting his clothes lay where they fell and stepped into the shower.

He turned to face the eye-level nozzles and turned the water on, full blast. 

John sputtered and jumped as a jet hit him hard in the face but nearly instantly felt the annoying thudding in his head recede to a dull little throb. A bit more water, some paracetamol and he’d be right as rain. Perhaps another indulgent breakfast...

Half of the appeal of the breakfast of yesterday had been eating it with Sherlock, had been watching Sherlock savor the sweet confection. Suddenly John had a visceral pang of sadness and felt very alone; they hadn’t even been together, not really. They’d just been sharing in one another’s space while John had been hoping for something far more. And yet when Sherlock had offered he’d blanched and had frozen, hadn’t been sure exactly where he stood with the man.

Of course he wanted Sherlock. The detective being aware of that fact had absolutely alleviated some of the stress John had been carrying about at harboring such feelings. But John didn’t just want, didn’t simply wish to take him to bed and indulge. As far as John was aware, the detective had no idea that he was toting around the doctor’s heart. John had given it to him, handed it to him willingly sometime before he’d jumped. John couldn’t pinpoint a time that he knew he loved Sherlock but he couldn’t actually determine a time in which he wasn’t in love with the man.

That was the problem: love. John knew there was a softness nestled somewhere within Sherlock, a considerate and emotionally sensitive side, but would Sherlock shy away from something so sentimental and basically human as _love_? Would he even consider itself capable of it? Gritting his teeth, he turned, baring his back to the spray and hung his head, rivulets coursing down over his shoulders, tickling his collarbone. 

There was plenty of time to consider the intricate complexities of Sherlock’s heart; for now, he just needed to get clean and get himself some breakfast.

\---

An hour later, John was dressed and had made the rather easy decision to make the most of his day, solo as he would be. 

He pulled up a map of the area and saved it to his phone, just in case he found himself unable to locate the hotel at day’s end. He didn’t intend to visit anywhere in particular, but rather wander about the city; he wanted to explore without any destination and so when he stepped out onto the bright, ocean front walk, he flipped a coin to choose which direction he would head in. 

Left, as it turned out, was the way he fate deemed he meader. He took photographs with his mobile - of the trees, the water, the shells in the sand. He wished, for a moment, that he’d thought to bring a proper camera, but the mobile would do fine; he wasn’t about to scrapbook anything after all and the only people who would likely ask for photos would be Molly and Mrs. Hudson and possibly Harry. There was a group of people a bit further down on the beach and he watched them perform tai chi for a few leisurely minutes before carrying on with his aimless walk. It wasn’t long before he located a breezy little cafe surrounded by palms that looked an inviting spot for breakfast. Choosing a table on the veranda John ordered a chocolate and hazelnut croissant, side of fruit and coffee.

He sat with his croissant and took a tentative sip of his steaming coffee; the strong flavor burst over his tongue and he allowed his eyes to slide closed. If all else went to hell, if this trip turned out to be all for naught and he ruined _everything_ with the only person he’d loved this thoroughly... he would remember the coffee. 

John picked at his croissant and breakfast, content to just sit and watch as people - locals and tourists - walked along the beach. The spectre of Sherlock waited patiently at the back of his skull to be sussed out, didn’t beg or insist, so he kept the man shelved for a while and enjoyed his morning without being hampered by the seemingly insurmountable issue of loving him. 

When he was through, John made his way downtown, popping into surf shops and kitschy tourist traps, perusing the trinkets and the souvenirs. Fingers trailed over rows of inexpensive puka shells necklaces and snow globes with names printed inside of them. He located ‘John’ easy enough and fleetingly wondered how much it would cost to have a custom snow globe made with Sherlock’s name on it.

The notion made him smile, deliriously. 

The shopkeeper halted in her organization of mini-Hawaii license plates to ask John if he was finding the name he was looking for.

“No,” John said through a grin and hung his head in a chuckle.

“Oh? What’s the name, sweetie?”

“Sherlock.”

“Odd name,” the woman said with a kind smile.

John pursed his lips in tightly-reined amusement. “It really, really is. Have a lovely day.”

There wasn’t a skip in his step as he made meandered further away from the hotel, but he certainly felt lighter. He _was_ making things more difficult than they had to be, wasn’t he? They had to talk about it, surely, but that didn’t invalidate any of John’s feelings, it didn’t negate anything Sherlock had said to him the night before. 

_Brave_ , Sherlock had said, he needed to be brave. He just needed to find the words, alleviate himself of all of the pent-up emotions, the sentences he’d gathered and practised and tried on his tongue while Sherlock was away. If Sherlock could understand how he’d hurt and why he’d hurt, if he could make him understand what had been dragging about his mind for months now, then perhaps yes, he could be brave. 

John didn’t need to put much thought to what he would say as he’d been thinking about just this for ages and ages. Instead of worrying over what would happen later, John entered the nearest tiki bar and ordered a mai tai that was served to him in - of all things - a hollow pineapple.

The rest of his day consisted of eating as much fresh seafood as possible, purchasing a lava rock for Mrs. Hudson on a whim, and sitting on the sand to watch the sun make its way across the sky. When he felt a sudden surge of drowsiness overcome him - an unfortunate side effect of the lingering hangover - John struggled to stand and made his way back to the hotel. He didn’t even have the energy to make his way to the bedroom, opting to simply collapse on the sofa.

His eyes drifted shut just as the sky shifted from blue to purple.

\---

John was roused from his gentle slumber when the front door clicked open; sitting up, he caught a glimpse of the time - half-ten - and scrubbed his face as he turned around to meet Sherlock as he entered. He looked chic and awake for having been gone the better part of the day. His gray suit was still crisp and pressed, the mossy green oxford beneath looking as though it had just come off the rack. The first two buttons of the shirt were undone like an offering and John sunk his nails into his thighs at the sight.

Sherlock said nothing as he padded through, just leveled John with a clear, appraising look and disappeared into his room. Sitting up fully on the sofa, John did what he could to tug out the wrinkles in his own clothing, once more feeling inadequate and underdressed in the presence of the detective.

The man emerged moments later, still dressed but barefoot and sat himself at the other end of the couch, drawing his feet up; they just barely brushed John’s leg.

They were silent for a time, John searching for words and Sherlock waiting for them to be spoken. It was the latter who broke the silence. “Aren’t you going to ask me about my day?”

“How was your day?” John offered weakly. Suddenly, the lightness he’d felt earlier had dissipated, leaving in its wake a ball of anxiety that sat like lead in his stomach.

“Fine. Boring and then... not boring and then I examined the samples and it was as I expected. Cut and dried really. Almost a shame we had to come all of this way for so little work.” His fingers flicked at the air lazily even as he kept his eyes intense and focused on John.

And there it was. John seized on the word in the sentence immediately, recognizing his ‘in’ but paralyzed with fear at taking it. He swallowed around the ball of nerves in his throat and asked as casually as possible, “Almost?”

“I’m enjoying my time here,” Sherlock drawled lazily as he turned his head back and forth against the throw pillow. “With you. Alone. No distractions.” His eyes darkened as his words became more dense with meaning. 

John raised his eyebrows in obvious surprise.

“I know; shocked myself, even,” Sherlock quietly stated.

John considered that, the simple, brash honestly of the statement as it sank low in his belly, pooling there in a sort of delirious, ecstatic heat.

“Was this it, your intent all along?”

Sherlock blinked and considered, a small, soft smile curling his lips. “Mmm no, not like this. But, the way that you’ve been looking at me John... touching me, I...” He lowered his eyes a fraction as though considering what he was about to say and a moment later once again met John’s gaze. “I wanted to take you apart piece by piece, in the kitchen of our flat. In the hallway at the Met, the bloody back alley in Bexley that smelled of garbage. I’ve wanted you _everywhere_.”

John didn’t trust his voice, so he didn’t speak.

Sherlock shrugged, lids heavy over his dark eyes. “It’s easier here, isn’t it?”

The doctor sank back into the couch, pressed his fists to his eyes, shook his head even as he croaked, “I suppose yeah, maybe it is.”

“It was easier when I was gone. Without you there, unearthing all of this and then... one must question one’s own thoughts when they’re all he has left. Was it simply that your absence allowed me to realize any of this or did I fabricate it as a means to carry on?” Sherlock was looking past John, eyes unfocused and glassy. “It was... terribly inconvenient.”

“Oh, I’ll bet,” the doctor said, slamming his fists against his knees and standing, needing to put the sudden surge of kinetic energy to use. He paced in front of the coffee table before becoming unsettled at how Sherlock’s gaze followed him; he rounded the sofa and walked into the breakfast nook, then back out, around. He came to stand in front of the counter, hands on his hips, breath heaving from him.

The detective sat up and regarded him, stood slowly and almost glided over to stand before him; he watched on as John’s chest rose and fell with the effort of his lungs. “Three years is a long time, Sherlock. Three years changed everything,” John growled and stepped back against the breakfast bar.

“Everything?” Sherlock stepped towards John, trapping him there against the hard surface, heedless of John’s discomfort.

The doctor brought his gaze to meet Sherlock’s. “Yes,” he said evenly. “Everything.”

There was a heavy moment then, standing so close to one another, John not backing down from Sherlock’s challenge, staring into his eyes. He did all that he could to remain still, locked his jaw and ground his teeth, balled his hands into fists at his sides. Sherlock breathed forcefully through his nose, eyes flicking down to glance at John’s lips; it was all he could do not to wet them as Sherlock looked his fill.

When their gaze met again Sherlock’s was distant, guarded. Biting his lip, Sherlock closed his eyes and John watched as they moved beneath the lids as though he was working through something. 

Sherlock cupped John’s cheek, leaned in and pressed his nose to the man’s temple. “I remembered the way you smell, while I was gone. I could recall it and I would imagine, in the most impossible way, you there beside me.” His lips pressed to the crest of John’s cheekbone, “I wanted you with me but I couldn’t...”

“Stop it,” John begged, eyes closed, breathing shallow. “Stop that. You can’t _change_ anything and you can’t...”

Sherlock pulled back, hand still brushing his cheek when John shook his head frantically and continued, a bit weaker. “No, I, you _left_ me, you left-”

And then it was all gentle white noise, Sherlock’s mouth against his temple, closed and warm. John started, pulled back, looked at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye and took a stride away. “This isn’t-”

Panicking, John stepped around Sherlock and glanced towards Sherlock’s room, towards his own room and the open patio door. “I need, jesus, I need some air. Just...” He took quick steps out of the suite, across the concrete and to the sand; he walked as far as he felt was necessary to put space between himself and Sherlock and ended up about fifty yards away, his toes just on the edge of the water. 

The swishing of the sand announced Sherlock’s hesitant arrival; he stopped just up the beach, a few meters away, and didn’t say a word. Back to him, John took another step forward, into the water and shoved his hands in his pockets, looking up at the moon through a blurry veil of sudden tears. “Fuck it all, they make this look so simple in films,” John said, trying for humor but falling completely flat.

“Fiction,” Sherlock returned, taking a few steps closer.

“Yeah, well...”

“I’m aware of my propensity to be brash and casual and indifferent,” Sherlock began; he sounded just over John’s right shoulder. “I won’t change, John. I haven’t in years. Though if you’re worried about this, about my interest in you, you should know I... I fancy you.” Those words coming from Sherlock sounded so foreign, so out of place that the right side of John’s mouth indented in a near smile.

“Quite more than that, actually,” he grumbled, continuing. His voice was low and soft, the sort of voice he used when speaking to John in hushed, secretive tones when the Met was about. “I can’t imagine ever being without you again. I can’t imagine ever tossing you aside.”

John turned at that, slowly drawing his hands out of pockets to cross his arms tight over his chest. He looked down at the sand for a long while, carefully considering what he was about to give up. 

“It’s not- I don’t think you’ll get bored, I don’t think you’ll... toss me aside. But, it’s... you’re the last person that I’m ever going to love, do you understand that?” Fingers rose to glance off the side of his skull in a ‘think’ gesture as John struggled with the multitude of words he didn’t know he could speak. Sherlock stood before him, face open and shocked, waiting.

“Do you understand what that means?” John pleaded with him. “Do you understand what it means that I love you? That I’m in love with you? Can you fathom any of that at all?” When he was through speaking, the magnitude of what he’d said seemed to round on him and douse him with the reality of it all. “Oh christ, I, I’m-”

“And there’s the courage,” Sherlock’s eyes were dark and intense, focused, his words tinted with wonder. “My brave man.”

“Sherlock-”

“Please do not for a moment believe that I haven’t considered each and every possible outcome of this; do not underestimate me, John.” A hand came up to rest on the doctor’s shoulder and he spared it a disbelieving glance. “Do not for a moment believe that I’m unaware of the ramifications of this.”

John sucked in a breath and allowed his eyes to fall shut. “Sherlock, we need to talk about this. We need to...”

“Why?” Sherlock asked almost innocently as he slid directly into John’s personal space, their chests very nearly brushing. “There’s plenty of time for that. Plenty of it. Forever, in fact. There will be eons to argue and discuss and contemplate and converse. And we’ve already talked it over a great deal. We can converse further on it later but for now...” Sherlock flicked his gaze to the floor for a moment and when he brought it back to John’s there was a devious glint of intent. The moment shifted hazily from desperately tense to rife with anticipation. “I would like to have holiday sex.”

His voice was exceedingly clear, rather banal as though he were making a statement of fact. Sherlock spoke of his want to have sex just as he might have said ‘We’re out of milk.”

John swallowed thickly, taking a moment to catch up. “Holiday... sex.”

“Mmm, yes. I’m reasonably certain that when one is on holiday one is more prone to _indulge_.” Tone soft, slightly cheeky.

“Sherlock,” John sighed even as his prick twitched with interest. “We can’t just-”

“Oh, but we can,” he insisted. “Step one, walk back up to the room, step two, divest you of your clothing, step three-” John felt his cheeks flare gave Sherlock a playful shove, or what was supposed to have been a playful shove, but the man’s heel sunk in the sand and he tumbled backwards, arms pinwheeling erratically in the air. He landed with a loud ‘Oof!’ in the surf, a wave smoothing up to meet him where he rested in the sand.

“Oh god, oh my god, I’m so sorry!” John moved to stretch out a hand even as a wave of hysterical giggles threatened to emerge from his throat. “Oh god, I-”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he took John’s hand; the man realized a moment too late that he’d made an enormous error in offering his assistance, as Sherlock tugged him down into the shallow water. He fell gracelessly, one hand in the sand and one balancing precariously on Sherlock’s hip. “You absolute git, you’re lucky I don’t have my mobile on me!”

“I do believe that you instigated, John,” Sherlock purred and shot him a giddy grin, flopping himself entirely down into the water, his dark curls floating in the waves.

John smiled down at him, not bothering to move his hand. “This is bonkers, you’re positively mad and I-”

“ _We_ are mad, John. You and I. Together.” And still Sherlock was smiling, even as he brought his right hand out to clutch at John’s knee. “Kiss me,” he urged, challenged, but didn’t move from his supine position in the sand. 

“Mad,” John repeated, his blood thickening and thrumming through veins too small as he leaned down in the water and draped his upper body over Sherlock’s.

The first press of lips was slow, just a slide of skin. John dragged his mouth, closed, dry but for drops of ocean, across Sherlock’s. He paid attention to the man beneath him, honed his senses, pinpoint-focused on his reactions. Sherlock pressed his mouth up, seeking more and still, John kept it light and teasing. Leaning down the slight incline meant that gravity took him just a bit more, tugged him until his face was pressed against Sherlock’s, humid breath puffing against his cheek.

“Like you mean it, John,” Sherlock growled. “Like you _love_ me. _Kiss me_.”

John’s throat went painfully tight and he trailed his index finger over the curve of Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock’s hand slid from the nape of John’s neck to the edge of his trousers, fore and middle finger slipping beneath to press against the man’s tailbone slightly. A shiver ran down the his spine and he lifted his head, gave Sherlock a look of intent and then brought their lips together. 

It was a languid thing, a liquid push and pull. John suckled Sherlock’s lower lip between his before dragging his teeth across and licking into his mouth with an edge of muted eagerness. The detective’s palms settled against John’s nape, holding him gently there as he shifted his head to deepen the kiss. 

John shifted too, maneuvering so that his knees were on either side of Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock hummed up into the kiss, brought his hands to John’s middle and squeezed. His mouth curled up in a smile as he felt himself sink a bit into the sand, his pelvis just brushing Sherlock’s beneath. 

“Ah, ah, I,” he sputtered when John began nipping at his jaw. John was quite content to slip his mouth down and settle against Sherlock’s carotid, was thrilled that he was squirming and responsive beneath him, overjoyed that he’d made Sherlock lose the power of speech. It was lazy and perfect until a larger wave crested and broke in the darkness beyond them, sending the resulting swell over the both of them where it beat on the sand.

John came up coughing, leaning back on his heels as Sherlock sat up sputtering, curls plastered on his forehead and eyes wide in surprise. Laughing through another cough, John pushed his hair back out of his face and struggled to stand up. “Yeah, yeah that had to happen.”

Sherlock scowled and took John’s proffered hand, standing with some difficulty. “Come on, let’s dry off,” John said, taking a few steps up the beach, only stopping when he realized that Sherlock wasn’t behind him. 

“Let’s not.”

“Excuse me?”

“I do hate repeating myself,” Sherlock snapped and then visibly calmed himself down. “Let’s not... dry off.”

John simply perked a brow, and gestured with a hand that Sherlock should lead on. They made their way back into the suite and Sherlock brought them in through his room, paused in the door to the bathroom and gestured with a lazy hand not to the bathtub, but to the shower. 

“This is all... quite fast, don’t you think,” John asked evenly, attempting to diffuse the sudden nerves he felt with vague humor. “Already taking showers together?”

“Think of it as an extension of the bath last evening.” Sherlock said, fiddling with the bottles on the counter and placing them inside the stall on the tiny tiled shelf. “Besides, if I’m to kiss you, I want to taste you, your skin, not... salt.” 

Sherlock stepped from the shower and turned, facing John with a soft, almost shy expression. Just the fact that he was allowing John to see him like this, this vulnerable and nervous and wanting was enough to kick up another flurry of nerves in his stomach.

“Care to join me?” His words were soft, rounded out with desire and warmth.

John blinked, toed his way into the room and cast his eyes from the large shower stall over to the tub; longing must have edged into his gaze, for Sherlock’s mouth lifted in a sweet smile. “Plenty of time for that later, I was hoping we’d spare just enough time to… clean up.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. And then I’ll take you to bed.” He was _Sherlock_ in that moment, matter-of-fact and confident.

John glanced away, at the wall, the open window. “Oh,” John breathed, heart rate stuttering to beat double-time against his ribs, clamoring there feeling as though it was demanding attention. Perhaps it was, swelling to reach out for Sherlock’s own. The thought was entirely romantic, something so delicate and desperate that it caused John’s cheeks to heat.

Sherlock wanted to take him to bed and John wanted… everything. Anything. Every single bit that Sherlock would give and more. It terrified him, the way his chest cavity expanded and felt full to bursting with how he felt.

“Oh,” he said again and inclined his head. “I suppose that’ll be alright.”

Sherlock barked a surprised laugh, reached out his hands and secured thumb and forefinger around John’s wrists. “Alright?”

“Hm,” he pretended to consider, gaze moving to stare down at Sherlock’s shoes, brow creasing as though he was deep in thought. “Yes, I’m amenable to that.”

This time, Sherlock’s mirth burst from him in a series of deep chuckles; he leaned in, rolled his forehead against John’s. “Good, then take off your clothes.”

“Bossy,” he sighed through a startled laugh and moved away from the detective, already reaching to shuck off his light polo. Sherlock spun, smooth and determined and turned on the water, adjusting it for temperature.

John worked his wet trousers off with difficulty, realizing halfway through that sitting would be best. He shuffled over to the bench, trousers around his knees and sat down with a little _oof_ as Sherlock watched on with amusement.

“Do you require assistance, John?”

“You just… mind yourself. And it appears,” came through gritted teeth as he tugged the cuffs over his ankles. “That you still have your trousers on, so…”

Sherlock stared for a beat longer and then undressed himself, making the task seem easy even as his clothing stuck to his skin. He balled the entire wad up and tossed it into the tub; after a moment, he reached for John’s and did the same.

“Keeping your pants on, then?” Sherlock asked, amusement still clinging to his voice.

“I-“ John began, looking down at his simple black boxer-briefs and then brought his eyes back up to Sherlock’s face. It was impossible, to be lost in a moment such as this but his hands trembled as they reached for the elastic of his pants. “I…”

His gaze fell and lingered on Sherlock, completely nude. His prick was half-hard between his thighs and John saw as it gave a small twitch of interest. Immediately his mouth parched a bit and his eyes slammed closed against the sight. His own arousal had ebbed for a while, the cold of the water and uncomfortable tightness of his wet clothes hampering the intensity of the situation. Now, his cock stirred with anticipation.

“You,” Sherlock rumbled, moving until he was standing just before John, “are a marvel.”

John forced his gaze up to meet Sherlock’s; he was startled at the unflinching clarity in his eyes and allowed himself to get lost in the icy blue-green for a wonderful, brief moment.

“Now,” the man breathed as he brought his mouth down to just glance off of John’s shoulder. “Take off your pants and get in the shower.”

The detective stepped in first, waiting at the door for John to follow and once he did, Sherlock slid the glass firmly shut. With gentle hands he maneuvered John beneath the spray and raked his nails over his scalp; John leaned into the touch, eyes falling closed as he let Sherlock take care of him.

The hands returned a moment later and lathered him with shampoo, John smiling as the water beat at his back and Sherlock’s chest just brushed his front.

“This is…”

“Hmmm?”

“No, it’s… this is very…”

A note of impatience leaked into the detective’s voice. “Very _what_ , John?”

“Intimate. _Jesus_ ,” John huffed, put out at being forced to put voice to thoughts so hastily. And it was intimate, the slow pacing, the way he was touching John’s body, as though there was nowhere else in the universe he’d rather be. It was flattering and humbling and impossibly arousing in a manner he’d never experienced before.

An utterly crisp, new sensation flooded through him as Sherlock ran an index finger behind the curve of his ear and asked silkily, “Problem?”

“No just… bit surprising,” Sherlock dipped John’s head back to wash the shampoo away before reaching for one of the bars of soap and running it over his shoulders. “Seeing you like this, having you like this it’s… new.”

There were other words he wanted to speak but in his current state he couldn’t think of how to voice them properly: his astonishment at Sherlock’s open affection, his care and trust; his nervous anticipation of what would happen when they made it into the bed. And his own trust, he wanted Sherlock to know that he trusted him in this, with his body and his heart, his mind.

“Can you-“ John began but was gently interrupted by Sherlock.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said nearly clinically and then rephrased. “I’m going to take care of you.” The words were a stunning cliché of every romantic film he’d ever seen but John found himself instantly comforted at hearing them. He was out of his element in this, regardless of how much he desired it and was put at ease knowing that Sherlock would buoy him if he began to drown in it all.

Sherlock soaped under John’s arms and his lower back; he slid his palm along the underside of John’s cock twice before running the bar against his palms and sliding around John’s arse. The man pitched into Sherlock, forehead falling against shoulder to hide the startled and slightly embarrassed flush that touched his cheeks.

Sherlock turns his cheek to rest against John’s hairline and he hummed, working two soaped fingers along the clenched cleft of John’s arse. “Here,” Sherlock murmured. “Here, it’s okay.”

John bit his lip and willed his body to relax as Sherlock gently but methodically slid his soapy fingers around his hole. His face heated even further as he imagined the reasons why Sherlock was cleaning him and was both aroused and made uncomfortable by them.

“Shampoo,” John gasped as Sherlock dragged the back of his forefinger against the tight ring of muscle, buttocks clenching to trap the finger momentarily.

“Hmmm?”

“Hand me the shampoo,” John said with a bit of difficulty. 

A moment later Sherlock rested the bottle against John’s bicep and he scrambled blindly to grab it. John made quick work of Sherlock’s hair even as Sherlock ran his fingers back against John’s bollocks and slid intently over his perineum.

Sherlock worked some of his ridiculous conditioner into John’s hair and then requested the same of his own. “Posh bastard,” John murmured even as he ran his teeth over the sweet angle of collarbone beneath his lips.

When they’d finished and John had lathered and rinsed Sherlock’s body, they wrapped themselves up in towels that slung low on their hips. The detective left the room for a moment to lock up and John glanced at himself in the mirror above the dresser.

He looked… the same. The absolute same he always did. His reflection smiled back at him and when Sherlock re-entered the room, their gazes met in the mirror. “Hey,” John began easily, feeling light and _good_. “I do, you know, love you, very much in fact.”

Sherlock smiled as his gaze faltered and he dimmed the room’s lights until they were off. “I know.”

And then Sherlock was on him, muted light from the patio pouring in as he worked himself and John out of their towels, leaving them in a heap on the floor. Sherlock advanced on John as the doctor scooted back on the bed and was pressed down against the pillows by an insistent hand.

Sherlock kissed him, long and lingering and slow. Time, it seemed, was of no consequence as Sherlock settled in to snog John within an inch of his sanity. He licked in, pressed the length of his body at John’s side and tucked his hand along the curve of John’s skull.

Feeling indulgent and boneless, John relaxed into the bed, touching Sherlock lazily across his shoulders and chest and back. He pressed against muscle, tested the give of his skin beneath his arms and along his elbows. “You’ve good shoulders,” John commented when Sherlock had diverted to nip at his earlobe.

“Good?” Sherlock asked, intrigued, on a laugh.

John dipped to fit his teeth into Sherlock’s shoulder briefly. “Oh shut it, you know you’re gorgeous.”

Sherlock hummed in the affirmative and said against John’s mouth, “As long as you think so.”

John did, very much, and continued touching Sherlock lightly when he shimmied south and took John’s right nipple between his lips and laved over it with his tongue. John caught his eye as he did so, sucking in a gasp. The grin Sherlock graced him with was devilish and cheeky and John shook his head against the pillow, shoving his hand into Sherlock’s hair to drag his mouth back up.

John caught his mouth with a vigor that surprised even himself. Their teeth knocked awkwardly but Sherlock didn’t seem to mind, their chests heaving together as the detective gave as good as he got. 

Sherlock slowed the pace, smiled against John’s skin and pressed kisses to his cheekbones and the tip of his nose, the corner of his mouth. John was content to wait and be surprised by Sherlock’s avenues of affection.

After a time of kissing at John’s throat, Sherlock slid his right hand down to John’s left hip and nudged at him to roll over.

“Sherlock…”

The detective drew back, sat on his heels and looked down at John, specks of moonlight captured in his gaze. The side of his mouth curved up, “I want you, if you’ll let me.”

John bit his bottom lip and considered what Sherlock was asking. John closed his eyes and willed his hesitation to fade away. And quite easily, with little hesitation, he gave Sherlock complete trust with his body.

“Against your arms,” Sherlock urged, “Put your head against your arms.”

A warm hand began at the nape of his neck, sweeping down over his spine, diverging to pet at his sides and begin the process all over. Sherlock’s confident palms rubbed at his shoulders and his buttocks. Gently, he spread John’s legs apart, patting them when they settled in the appropriate space on the bed.

Fingers swept from John’s tailbone down and out, seemingly waiting as the tension eased fully from his bones.

When John was almost sure he was simply receiving some intimate sort of reiki, Sherlock secured an arm around his hips and urged him to shift up on his knees and lay his stomach against a pillow.  
“Hmmm,” Sherlock hummed and then his hands were slowed prying John’s buttocks apart. John pressed his eyes hard into his forearm until he saw stars, willing his body to remain still.

A moment later, the tip of Sherlock’s tongue touched just to the center of John’s hole before disappearing. John held a sharp breath in his lungs until the tongue returned, this time lingering and pressing a bit. It was an odd feeling, invasive but good, filthy and brilliant.

When Sherlock pressed the flat of his tongue there and lapped, John’s hips bucked and stuttered into the duvet. The detective gave a hum of approval, his lips vibrating against John’s skin and the man had to sink his teeth into the pillow to keep from shouting out.

Sherlock licked him sloppily, making little slurps and mewls of pleasure that John could just not comprehend. It baffled him even as it drove him insane, that Sherlock was enjoying what he was doing to the point he had to express his own pleasure.

It was long minutes of Sherlock licking into him, against his bollocks and over and along his arsecheeks before he pressed a finger against the ring of muscle. Sherlock paused until John panted out a “Yeah, okay,” and then pressed in just to the first knuckle.

“One evening, John,” Sherlock began, tracing his tongue briefly around his finger. “I’ll be inside of you like this. One evening… but not tonight.” Teeth dragged over the curve of his right arsecheek. “I cannot _wait_ for that evening John, to feel you around me.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” John spat into the pillow, wanting it more than he could have ever fathomed wanting something about which he’d been so apprehensive. But yes, John now craved, he wanted, he _needed_ to feel Sherlock’s cock inside of him.

“One day,” Sherlock breathed as he eased his finger in to the hilt, gently arcing the digit up until it just brushed John’s prostate. “I’ll make you feel everything.” Open mouthed kisses pressed against his hole and John squirmed down into the bed, cock impossibly hard.

Confusion and want swam together in his mind; he felt so loved from such sweetly filthy gestures. Before tonight John wouldn’t have thought he could be so sensitive to a tongue against his arsehole but the thought of Sherlock’s stopping now had him on the edge of insanity.

Sherlock pulled off, scraped his teeth over the light hair that peppered John’s thighs just below his buttocks. John huffed a moist breath into the pillow beneath his mouth and braced for Sherlock’s next touch.

A moment later the bed dipped and Sherlock pressed his mouth to John’s tailbone and then up, over the next notch of spine. Up and up until he was draped over John’s body and fitted his lips to the side of John’s neck.

He spoke into the skin there. “You.”

John swallowed and shifted his chin back. “Me?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said as though he needed no further explanation and peeked out his tongue to lick at John’s jaw. “Alright? Was that…”

“Almost too much,” John admitted.

Sherlock considered. “But good?”

“Yes, in the best way possible.” John hummed and opened his eyes, feeling hot and boneless and lovely and loved.

Sherlock grinned and then wrapped an arm around John’s bicep and turned him over. John squirmed back against the sheets, the wetness between his cheeks slick.

Pressing his chin into John’s pectoral, he grinned shyly, his hand moving down John’s body to take him in hand. “Yesss,” Sherlock hissed and hitched his hips up until his own cock laid hard and heavy against John’s hip.

Tongue against his lower lip, John twisted his wrist and slid two of his fingers around the crown of Sherlock’s cock, thumb teasing the wet slit gently. Hips bucked into his, John’s palm slipping and scaring a huff of laughter from his lungs. Pulling his hand away, he brought it to his mouth but then thought better of it.

“Can I - I want to taste you,” John said, turning into Sherlock’s neck.

“Yes, god yes, John please,” Sherlock slurred and John was catapulted into action, hearing the raw, edgy need in the man’s voice.

“Lie back, lie back,” John urged, placing a palm in the center of Sherlock’s chest and made to duck his head. He thought better of it and brought their lips sloppily together, tongues sliding obscenely.

“Ha, hah,” John huffed when he pulled back and leaned in to smack a wet kiss on Sherlock’s left pectoral.

He slid down on the bed, knees alongside Sherlock’s as he wrapped his left hand around his prick and gave an experimental squeeze. The man bucked up in the touch and then, apparently embarrassed by his neediness, bit his bottom lip between his teeth and flushed.

“Jesus,” John said in wonder, leaned down and suckled the head into his mouth. It took him a moment to get his bearings, working out how far he could take Sherlock’s cock, how to cover his teeth with his lips, to compress his tongue and press it into his prick with every stroke.

John acclimated to the size of Sherlock’s prick and once he had, pulled off to spit into his hand, wrapping his right around the base of the man’s cock. It wasn’t terribly difficult, John realized, and was helped along by the delightfully breathy sounds Sherlock was making.

“Just, ah-, ah! Yes, John, that, fuck,” when John ran his tongue against the slit, moving back down to trace the thick vein chasing up the underside. Settling the weight of his upper body on his elbows, John began experimenting with pace and pressure, paying attention to the way Sherlock’s hips bucked and how his hands clutched at the duvet. 

John ran the pads of his fingers gently around Sherlock’s bollocks, sneaking around to massage his perineum. He jacked him as he moved his mouth away, placing an open-mouthed kiss on Sherlock’s thigh. The detective sighed and shifted up on his own elbows, looking down at John with a gaze that singed. 

John leaned his cheek against the skin beneath him and held the man’s gaze, licking his palm once more before returning it to the full, hot prick. “For someone who-” Sherlock panted and blinked long and slow. “You are...”

When John realized Sherlock couldn’t finish his thought he chuckled and squeezed the crown of the man’s prick, leaning over to give it a last, lingering kiss. “Thanks?”

“You,” Sherlock said and swallowed thickly, waiting for John to climb up his body and took his face between thumb and forefinger. The kiss he bestowed upon John was sloppy and wonderfully deep and John hummed into it. “Are entirely welcome.”

John settled himself on the pillow next to Sherlock for a moment and waited until Sherlock shook the fringe out of his eyes and looked at him. He wasn’t prepared for the utter vulnerability in his gaze; the breath still in John’s lungs and he held it there while he looked his fill, taking in the image of Sherlock reclining and wrecked in the dim light. 

The shock of it must have shown on John’s face - even now after having the man’s tongue in his arse he was surprised at how strongly Sherlock _felt_ \- because he shuttered his face and closed his eyes. After a moment, he was a whirlwind, swinging his right leg over John’s hips and settling his arse down on his thighs. 

Immediately John’s hands went to the man’s hips. “Okay?”

“Of course,” Sherlock managed. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

John grinned at him and then squeezed the skin between his fingers. “Forget it.”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock hummed in response, settling his torso against John’s with care. “How’s this?” Sherlock canted his hips and snapped them into John’s, their cocks sliding together.

John clenched his jaw and slammed his head back into the pillow, struggling with his words. “Oh it’s... just fine thanks.”

Sherlock chuckled and repeated his movement, pressing his nose to John’s cheek as he did so. “Can you reach that bottle on the table just there?”

John blinked his eyes open and glanced over at the table, noting the small black bottle hidden just behind the lamp. He made to snatch it and managed to tip it over so that it rolled to the front of the table where he grabbed it up. John didn’t question it, though he did allow himself to wonder if Sherlock had been pleasuring himself, alone in his room, just as John had. The simple scenario brought an additional flush to John’s cheeks and he smiled.

“Yes,” Sherlock slurred into John’s neck as the doctor flicked the bottle open. “Yes, I thought of you John, I thought of you when I touched myself.” John hissed a breath in through his teeth as Sherlock continued. “Just you. Always you, John.”

He managed to pour a bit of the liquid onto his fingers, closed the bottle with his wrist and tossed it off of the bed. “Good to know,” he murmured, pressing his mouth to Sherlock’s cheek as he gathered both of their pricks in his hand. Sherlock moved his hips in time with John’s awkward strokes, shifting his hips so they were nearly flush with John’s creating more friction.

John’s free hand scrabbled to grip Sherlock anywhere, his bicep, his hip, his arse. Sherlock hooked his arms beneath John’s and used the angle for leverage, pressing himself down whilst dragging his hips up. John gasped, swore, slid his tongue against any of Sherlock’s skin he could reach. 

It was sloppy and not enough, their rhythm faltered every few thrusts and Sherlock growled each time they went off course. “John,” he said into the man’s shoulder. “Tighten your, jesus, tighten-”

“Yeah,” he complied immediately, free hand slipping around just enough to glance over the light hair on Sherlock’s bollocks. “Please, Sherlock, please,” came his tense words, half whine, half groan. “Please.”

“Uhn, yes, I want- I want,” Sherlock sank his teeth into the flesh of John’s jaw, snapped his hips in a staccato rhythm so quickly that it was nearly painful. John held tight and fast, kept his teeth clamped down on his lower lip until he felt his orgasm coil and spark. With his unoccupied left hand he pulled Sherlock’s face away from his neck and crushed their mouths together, the movement startling the detective.

It wasn’t instant or elegant, but after long moments of their tongues sliding inexpertly against one another. John gasped and came, hips halting the rhythm entirely as he spasmed. Sherlock groaned and watched for a moment before he leaned onto his right elbow and took his prick in hand, still kissing John through his orgasm. 

Sherlock’s own took him a moment later and he went utterly still; John brought his hand to the back of the man’s neck and held him through it, whispering into his open mouth that was still pressed against John’s. “That’s it, yes love, yes.”

His hips stuttered twice before Sherlock slumped against him, laying down in the mess they’d made of John’s stomach. The doctor cringed a bit at the sensation but took Sherlock’s weight, cradling the man’s head to his shoulder as they both struggled to regain their breath.Sherlock huffed into John’s chest a few times before peeking up to look at him; feeling that he was being watched, John opened his eyes as well and gaze at the blissed out man who lay atop him.

There was no helping the lazy grin that spread across John’s face or the gentle way he stroked a hand across Sherlock’s shoulders.

Blinking long and slow, Sherlock pushed himself off of John and spread himself out on the bed, propping his head up on a hand. His gaze slid down John’s body and then back up, his smile climbing with it. “You look… debauched.”

“Perhaps because I was just debauched,” John laughed, weaving his fingers through the untidy mop of Sherlock’s hair. “Well, truly and thoroughly.” 

Sherlock’s smile slid off of his face as he continued to stare at John. For his part, John waited patiently, waited for Sherlock to suss out what was going on in his head and after a moment, the smile climbed back up from his mouth to crinkle into his eyes and he flopped down onto his back. 

“We should order room service, I’m starved,” Sherlock said in the voice he usually reserved for speaking of cases. Leaning over, he snagged a towel from the floor and cleaned up what mess he could, dabbing at John’s stomach a little too vigorously.

As he laughed, he shifted to his side, sliding one knee up over Sherlock’s calf and laid there. “Dinner, now? It’s nearly half-one, that’s rather indulgent.”

Sherlock turned to face him and brought a gentle hand up to touch John’s cheek. He gazed at john for a long moment, his mouth curling in affection. “We’re on holiday, John. Live a little.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...you wanted to play tourist today so… we’ll do whatever you like. And later… hmmm, we’ll do whatever you like then, as well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allison. Rock star.
> 
> Felicia. Also rock star.
> 
> End of list.

“You’re incandescent,” were the first words he heard as his eyes drifted open to meet the harsh sunlight that had most certainly been guilty of rousing him. Sherlock hadn’t bothered to close the heavy drapes across the door and the morning sunlight spilled in, obtrusive but cheery. Not the best way to wake up but most certainly not the worst.

It took a moment for the world to come to John Watson; it took a moment in the way that it always did when one didn’t recognize the room in which one woke up or the scents that surrounded him. He blinked against the light and turned slowly, shifting carefully beneath the covers. Sherlock was sitting up in bed, looking at him with such unabashed delight that John felt the need - for a moment - to duck under the covers and hide himself.

Instead, he reached across the short distance and laid his palm over Sherlock’s duvet-covered thigh. He shifted himself beneath the covers, settling properly on the pillow as he felt a twinge and pull in the muscles of his legs. 

And his arse.

And suspiciously, his shoulders and wrists.

“Jesus christ,” John moaned, eyes shifting from sleepy and unaware to slightly pained and curious. “I’m sore all over and we didn’t even do much last night.”

Though Sherlock was watching him raptly, he was also fiddling with his mobile and spared a moment to place it on the bedside table, forgotten for the time being. “Didn’t we?”

“Well, yes but… it feels like you twisted me into a pretzel and then undid me again.” John tested his wrists, flattering his palms against one another and pushing back to stretch the tendons.

Sherlock blinked and considered, eyes darkening a fraction with something like nervous expectation when John glanced up at him. “Is that something you would like for me to do?”

“Absolutely,” John said without hesitation and erased the lingering distress from Sherlock’s face with a lovely, easy smile. “Yes. But not now. Not for a few days, _at least_.”

Half of Sherlock’s mouth jumped in a smile as he pressed his upper back against the headboard and arched his torso forward, stretching too. “I admit, I feel rather… raw at the moment.” 

“Not as young as we used to be, I suppose.” John took a moment to hold his arms at the elbow, above his head; first the left, then the right.

The manner in which Sherlock licked his lips shouldn’t have been indecent, but it was, and John watched as Sherlock’s tongue passed over his mouth from one corner to the other, his gaze chasing it eagerly. “I’m rather certain it becomes less likely to inspire pain next day if we do it more frequently.”

Sherlock caught him watching and flushed pleasantly. John took a moment to clear his throat before speaking, “You’re saying the more we have sex the less likely it will _hurt_ later on.” John chuckled and rolled his neck a bit.

“That is indeed exactly what I am implying, but for now I believe we should make use of that tub.”

There was a coy reply hovering on John’s lips but he spared a moment to recall the image of Sherlock in the bath: wet, warm, exposed. “Yes,” John said without any further thought and tumbled out of bed so unceremoniously that he caught a foot in the bedsheets and tripped over a towel, falling to the floor.

Sherlock laughed, full-bodied and deep and threw himself down on the bed with the force of it. “Once you’ve regained your faculties would you care to join me in the bath?” Sherlock was mocking but sweet, his lips attempting to curtail the delirious grin that was wavering at his cheeks.

“Your fault, you know,” John said, untangling his limbs from the sheets in order to stand. When he did, he realized how thoroughly nude he was, glanced down at his body in something akin to surprise. He hadn’t had the foresight to consider what Sherlock would think, looking his fill in the daylight.

Sherlock’s left eye was visible over the hill of duvet and it darted around in interest, lingered at John’s collarbone and penis, zigzagged up his torso until he met John’s eyes. “Bath please,” was murmured into the bedclothes yet he remained lying there for a moment more before pushing himself up and all but bounding off of the bed. “Now.”

John’s mouth leapt in a surprised smile and he followed the man through the door and into the bathroom. It was brighter in there, morning sun reflecting off of the sandstone tiles. Sherlock was already running the water into the basin, testing the temperature on the inside of his wrist. John watched on as he stepped back to select a bottle off of the counter and pour some of the liquid into the bath.

“Properly fancy,” John commented, gaze focused on the curve of Sherlock’s arse as the man bent to dip a hand into the bason. “Christ,” rushed out of his mouth, breathy and short and John closed his eyes against the sight.

When Sherlock turned to face him he was wearing a warm smile; sauntering up to John, he settled his hand on the man’s hip and leaned in to nuzzle at his temple. “I hope you don’t consider this too…”

“Romantic?” John huffed against Sherlock’s cheek, feeling a desperate urge to kiss him.

“Presumptuous,” came his answering rumble. “This is blatantly intimate, don’t you think? Nowhere to hide…”

“I don’t want to hide from you, don’t need to.” A remnant of nervous energy fluttered free from his belly and caused a shaky laugh to burst from him. “Still a bit… this is all a bit new, isn’t it? Nervous perhaps but I don’t want to hide.”

Cheek to cheek, John could feel the detective work his jaw, stroking their cheeks together after a moment. “Good, that’s good.” He dropped a kiss on the curve of John’s ear and stepped away, fingers lingering on his hip.

“I plan on, I hope to…” John struggled with his words as he watched Sherlock lift his right leg and step into the tub, appreciating the way the tendons flexed and rippled beneath the skin. It was undeniably appealing. “What is it that… now I can’t help but want to…” John’s thoughts were jumbled, the vision of Sherlock nude dashing his sentences into indecipherable fragments. 

“Hmmm?” Sherlock hummed as he lowered himself carefully into the water and sank back against the far side of the porcelain. 

“I think seeing you naked is going to be a detriment,” John said, voice light and full of mirth and surprise as he stepped forward and maneuvered himself down into the water as well. “Going to want to touch you all the time.”

“That will be rather problematic,” Sherlock agreed with a smile, eyes slipping closed when John slid the arches of his feet along the outside of the detective’s thighs until the tips of his toes turned in to settle against the curve of Sherlock’s arse. “The feeling however, is entirely mutual. I’d imagine that as the novelty wears off so will the urge to touch one another so frequently.”

“We’ll see,” John sighed, giving himself over to the soothing, lavender-scented water. He felt a swell of affection rise in his chest and instead of rebuking it, he welcomed it. “But I doubt it.”

Sherlock hummed again and began stroking at John’s thigh with the arch of his own foot. “What would you like to do today, John?”

Rather than wondering at Sherlock’s sudden ability to consider what would make John happy, he thought about it for a moment. He wanted to introduce Sherlock to the fantastic coffee he’d had the day prior, perhaps stroll along the beach. If he could convince Sherlock to accompany him he wanted to maybe see about a boat trip or a surfing lesson, really anything that was completely touristy. Instead of voicing any or all of his thoughts, he rolled his head against the lip of the tub. “Dunno, any thoughts?”

John trailed his right hand through the water, disturbing the miniscule bubbles, dragging them along a wavy route. His cock was half-hard, the simple notion of bathing with Sherlock thrilling him, but he was content to remain relaxed and unhurried in his arousal, lingering in the bath. It was a delightful, simple indulgence, one he hadn’t had the chance to partake in since his time in physio. He found that while he enjoyed it quite a bit before, to bathe with Sherlock felt like decadence, a treat, a fucking miracle.

He knew that once they returned to London Sherlock would succumb to his obsessions and his moods; now, he was content to bask in Sherlock exhibiting something near stasis. 

“Breakfast certainly,” Sherlock sighed, poking John’s thigh for emphasis. “Perhaps we can go down to the water and then later - if you’re amenable - I’d very much like to feel you inside of me. Or vice versa, whatever… works.” 

John peered over at Sherlock whose eyes were still closed, body nearly supine, water just to his chin. “Just like that…” John choked out, partly in wonder and partly in absolute and total surprise.

“What?” Sherlock’s face was void of any ulterior motive; totally confused, he sat up in the bath.

John laughed, and glanced up at the ceiling, wondering for the umpteenth time how he came to be in a bathtub with his best friend, naked, talking openly and particularly frankly about buggering one another. “I don’t know what to be more shocked by, the fact that you’re talking about anal sex so frankly or the fact that you’re suggesting we eat.”

Sherlock brought his wet hands up to hair and eyes still closed, dragged them through the tresses slowly; for a moment John couldn’t breathe for the sight. “Protein, I think, we’ll need our energy.”

“Oh, will we?” John asked flippantly, sinking down in the water just as far as Sherlock had. His brain was pleasantly hazy, not yet really having pored over this shift in their relationship.

“Sexual activity does burn calories John,” Sherlock drawled, lifting his leg to slick his foot along the top of John’s thigh to his knee. “And I intend to fuck you into the mattress. Or,” he said after a moment, “Vice versa.”

“Sherlo-jesus, jesus christ!” He sat up in the bath quickly, water sloshing over the side and met Sherlock’s lecherous grin with one similar. “Are you… alright I didn’t expect you to be so-”

“Willing, bold, _adventurous_?”

“Hah, no, randy, I suppose.” John struggled to find a comfortable seat in the water, “Or are you having me on?”

“Can’t it be both?”

“Come here,” John asked, his cheeks still flushed a light shade of pink. Sherlock raised a single brow, arms slung on either side of the porcelain. “Just, fucking… come _here_.” 

Shrugging, the taller man did as told, crouching as he turned, displaying his backside to John as he sank down to rest in the open vee of the doctor’s legs. A sigh escaped John as he settled his arms down around Sherlock, palms floating through the water to rest over his thighs. “This would work much better the other way around,” Sherlock rumbled but he scooted down against the basin and settled his head back against John’s shoulder.

A huffed laugh was John’s response and he swallowed heavily as another wave of heady emotion threatened to overtake him. “I want to pause you like this, to carry me over for when you’re in a strop or having one of your black moods.”

Sherlock’s body stiffened and he turned his head as though to meet John’s gaze; he made it as far as his temple brushing against John’s jaw. Clearly he didn’t understand the implications of making such a monumental shift in their relationship while on vacation. He didn’t understand the added veil of romance that being on holiday, away from “real life” shimmered over everything; being on holiday smoothed the wrinkles and paved the bumps and made everything seem shiny, lovely, life problems a little less consequential. “Pardon?”

“This all… we’re on holiday, yeah? Things change when life goes back to normal,” John explained, wishing he hadn’t said anything that would sully the mood. “We don’t have to talk about this now, we shouldn’t… let’s just enjoy this and we’ll get to what happens in London when we get back to London.”

They could anticipate the dropping of the other shoe sometimes in the future, for now they were allowed to bask in the sweet decadence of lust and affection.

Sherlock remained tense for a moment longer but eventually nodded minutely and relaxed against John, whose arms curled up and around his chest, enveloping him in a soapy embrace.

\---

The coffee, as it turned out, was just as delicious for Sherlock as it had been to John. “We should buy this. We should buy several bags. How many bags can we safely fit in our luggage?” he asked as he took another swig from his paper cup. 

“Slow down there,” John motioned with his own, smaller cup. “You’re going to caffeine crash and then where will we be?”

Sherlock twisted his lips in dismay but pulled the cup away and stared past John, out towards the ocean. He had his feet up underneath the table, stretched out to rest along one of the support beams of the railing to the porch. John’s chair was just beside his, close enough to feel Sherlock’s heat, but faced the other way, towards the entrance to the shop. They sat like that, side by side, talking of nothing at all. 

Something wriggled out of the pit of John’s stomach then, watching as Sherlock pushed a hand through his hair just as his sunglasses slid down the bridge of his nose. He was beautiful, carefree and John would allow him endless cups of coffee if he could somehow capture the essence of _this_ and carry it with him always.

It wasn’t what John expected but it was Sherlock gentle and quiet, relaxed and so much _his_ that John’s stomach turned and fluttered so delightfully viciously that he could barely swallow.

“Hey,” John said, a little stunned, a little breathless, a little giddy. “Hey,” he said, at a corner table on a veranda at a nameless coffee shop on the ocean. “I love you.”

The words broke free and John fought the urge to say them again and again, fingers tightening minutely on his coffee cup. He’d spoken them the night before but here underneath a hot summer sun, he said them again and laid the truth totally, entirely bare. 

It was a long minute, Sherlock turning his own cup in circles against the table, before his glasses slid down enough for John to view his eyes. They were as they always were, crystalline and aquamarine; his eyes hadn’t changed. Everything was the same, exactly as normal. “I… and I you, very much.”

It was more and somehow better and bigger and when Sherlock broke into a grin, John followed. It meant that John was in Sherlock’s heart but his head too, had carved himself into a fine room of that mind palace; Sherlock didn’t have to admit to it for John to be sure.

It was something beyond all of that too.. But, John conceded, that wasn’t quantifiable just yet and settled back in his seat, their hands clasping tightly on John’s knee beneath the table.

They spent their afternoon walking through the airy streets of Honolulu, Sherlock leading them along paths less-beaten, seeking out the obscure and shadowy. John had expected this of him but he hadn’t expected Sherlock to guide him with a warm, even hand to his back. They ducked into shops and fiddled with souvenirs. They selected kitschy little trinkets for Lestrade and Molly because they could, and they ate shrimp and pineapple while sitting cross-legged on the beach, watching the ocean. 

“I can’t get over this,” John said as he settled a hand into the sand for leverage; with the other he brought a bottle of beer to his mouth and took a long pull.

“Are you intending to further wax poetic about _paradise_ and lovers therein?” Sherlock licked a bit of butter from his thumb and polished off the dregs of his own beer, digging the empty bottle down into the sand. 

John shot him a condescending grin, “I might.”

Sherlock served him with a genuine grin and wiped his hands on the flimsy paper napkin. “So, you intend for us to meander about all day? Don’t you have anything you’d like to do?”

John paused with his bottle halfway to his mouth and considered; he had been quite interested in getting up to something adventurous earlier but the thought no longer appealed to him. “Not especially,” he began, bit his lip and looked out towards a copse of palm trees. “I honestly can’t stop thinking about… what you said earlier.”

“When?”

“In the bath.”

“Which _bit_?”

John hesitated with his tongue pressing against his bottom lip. “I’d like to try it.”

“Oh,” Sherlock whispered, brushing granules of sand from the tops of his feet. “Good.”

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely, I didn’t think… I suppose I hadn’t thought you’d acquiesce so readily. I’m… pleasantly surprised.”

“But I… I’d rather - just so we’re clear I think we should talk about this before we… do it - I’d rather be the one to… just as… I don’t know.”

Sherlock tipped his chin out towards the sea and considered.“You’re apprehensive, understandably.”

John directed his eyes in the same direction and curled in on himself a little, embarrassed that he wasn’t completely, entirely comfortable. “A bit.”

“You also know that I will take the utmost care with you.”

John’s cheeks heated considerably as he dropped his gaze to his lap. Sherlock’s voice was soft, warm, honest. God, what was John getting himself into? “Yes.”

Sherlock licked his lips and nodded almost absently. “But you’d rather fuck me, this go round,” Sherlock said with such lack of emotion that a laugh startled out of John.

“You have to be so goddamned… god, I’m…” He breathed a harsh breath out through his nose and glanced back at the detective. 

Sherlock’s mouth tipped up in a sly smile as he leaned into John until they were shoulder to shoulder. “John, we will go as slow as you like but please know that I would like nothing more than to feel you inside of me.” He plucked John’s beer from his hand and brought it to his lips. “But you wanted to play tourist today so… we’ll do whatever you like. And later… hmmm, we’ll do whatever you like then, as well.” 

“You’re so bloody accommodating it’s hard not to be suspicious of all of this,” John said grudgingly.

“It would be quite easy to knock you out and extract your kidneys for sale on the black market,” Sherlock pretended to ponder. “Though I could have done that just as simply back home, so…”

“Git,” John said, reaching over to punch him lightly in the shoulder. “Go get us more beer.”

\---

They didn’t bother with seeking out anything touristy, lingering on the beach instead, bottles of beer in hand, Sherlock deducing the passersby at a leisurely pace. When he’d had quite enough, he laid back in the sand, hands beneath his head, and stared up at the darkening sky.

John followed suit, shimmying closer to him before coming to rest on the sand. 

“You really think the novelty will wear off?” John asked, aiming for casual, though a bit of apprehension snuck into the tone.

Sherlock considered. “It must. Emotions always wane after a time in any… relationship. Much as you mentioned earlier this will all take on a different… we’ll see each other differently when we’re home and we’ll adjust. Such is the nature of being human, such is the nature of being in a sexual relationship.”

“...sexual relationship,” John tested with distaste. 

“ _Any_ relationship John; that’s not to imply that ours is purely sexual.” Sherlock’s elbow knocked against John’s as they lay and watched the sky shift from pink and violet into ultramarine. 

They didn’t speak for a long while, content to listen to the sea meeting the sand, the murmuring of people walking along, the faint but distinct music from the tiki bar down the way. It was Sherlock who sat up first and reached across for John’s hand. He stood and then pulled the doctor up with him and they took turns dusting the sand from one another’s backs. 

John’s hand settled for a moment on the curve of Sherlock’s arse and when he turned, the color was high in the detective’s cheeks. “Are you… hungry for dinner, John?”

He sucked his lower lip into his mouth and swallowed hard, noting the way Sherlock’s voice dipped to a dangerous octave. He was offering dinner, but he wasn’t interested in dinner. “No, not particularly hungry.”

“Then may I suggest,” Sherlock leaned into him quickly, ducked and nipped hard at the lobe of John’s ear, “that we retire to our suite?”

John pursed his lips in an attempt to hold in the maniacal grin that was threatening to spread across his face. “Oh, let’s.”

They didn’t hold hands on the way back, but John did manage to catch Sherlock’s pinky with his for a brief squeeze before releasing it. They slowed their strides as they approached the patio, walking at half speed until Sherlock halted just before a copse of palms. 

“I feel good, John,” he began, voice low, words carried off with the breeze. “Light and…” 

John watched as Sherlock searched for the words, watched as his lips twitched and his eyes shivered. “Like you’re working a ‘ten’ case?”

Sherlock turned to him and though he grinned and said, “you think rather highly of yourself.”

“Well,” John grinned back and moved forward, settled a hand against the back of Sherlock’s neck and brought their mouths together. The kiss was languid and sloppy, tongues pressing against lips and teeth, lips curving into smiles and frowns in turn, mouths skipping over to press against cheeks as delighted chuckles bubbled out. 

John walked them backwards for as long as he dared, grasping Sherlock around the hips as the taller man took control of the kiss. They’d made it another few feet before Sherlock tripped backward but caught himself on John’s shoulders, sending them both into a new fit of breathless laughter.

“I feel like I’m eighteen again,” John murmured into the side of Sherlock’s neck.

“Really John,” Sherlock groaned. “I don’t know how much more of your romantic drivel I can _stand_ ,” His voice was pained but mocking and just as John pulled back to meet his gaze, Sherlock grabbed at the doctor’s hand and tugged, walking them briskly up to the patio door and pressing inside. 

Immediately, Sherlock spun them around, pressing John back against the door. They were pelvis to pelvis, hardness pressing against one another. “Last chance,” Sherlock warned, even as he sucked at John’s clavicle. 

“Come _off_ it,” John groaned and tug his fingers into the skin at Sherlock’s sides. “Bedroom please,” he said, pleaded again when Sherlock refused to let up. “ _Please_.”

“Yours or mine?” Sherlock said breathlessly as he pulled back, hair askew, lips plump and red from John’s attention. 

“Yours, closer to the condoms,” John assumed and began tugging at Sherlock’s hand as he rounded him and set off for the bedroom.

But Sherlock remained by the door, still, eyes gone wide.

“What?” John asked cautiously, dropping his hand and stepping into the taller man’s personal space. “ _What_?” he asked, concern now evident in his voice.

“Condoms…”

“Yeah, you’ve got… you’ve _not got_ , fuck, I just assumed.” John hung his head, took a deep, steadying breath. 

“Ah. Yes. I was not lying when I said I’d not brought you here for this purpose; if I had…”

Running his tongue against his upper teeth, John considered. “Both of our faults then, we knew about this all day and…”

“Hmm, yes, we were too caught up in the _romance_ to think of it,” Sherlock drawled sarcastically and was the recipient of a light smack to the center of his chest.

“Oi, shut up, today was lovely; you said yourself. Now what do you propose we do-”

Sherlock was already walking hastily towards the front door of the suite, “I’ll be right back!”

Before he could get out another word, Sherlock was gone from the room, leaving John to shake his head after him. Of course he’d go out in public while in such a state of tumescence, of course he would  
. John ran his hands over his face and paced into Sherlock’s room. He stared for a brief moment at the lovely made bed and allowed his mind to drift to just _how_ they were going to muss it up.

He shut the curtain to the patio a bit, leaving the doors open so that the slight breeze rippled the fabric. On a whim he went back onto the patio and grabbed up a few of the larger candles and brought them into place on various surfaces in Sherlock’s bedroom. He lit them quickly, cheeks heating in a sudden embarrassment, wondering if he’d set the scene in too cliche a manner. But the warm, flickering light against the walls; he wants to see the muscles in Sherlock’s back move, dappled by that light.

He wanted to see how Sherlock’s eyes would pick up the muted glow.

That, John thought, and this moment _was_ rather momentous and - if he was honest with himself - not likely to go entirely smoothly and he wanted to remember it as fondly as possible. Hands bracketing his hips John took a deep, steadying breath and stepped back out of the room to wait for Sherlock.

When the man returned, he flung himself through the door with an eagerness that would have startled John had he not known the reason. John laughed as Sherlock tossed the small box of condoms at him; he caught them easily and then stepped around the sofa, snagging Sherlock by a belt loop and dragging him reeling into the bedroom.

“Can’t believe you went down to the shop with a stiffy,” John laughed, beginning to unbutton the detective’s shirt. 

“Small price to pay,” Sherlock conceded, batting John’s hands out of the way in order to turn the tables and begin on working John out of his trousers. “I see you’ve attempted to set the mood.”

“Attempted?” John chuckled, finally freeing the last button of Sherlock’s shirt. “I think I’ve very well succeeded.”

“You’re an odd man,” Sherlock murmured fondly, stepping in close to nuzzle his nose up and behind John’s ear.

“What’s that say about you?”

“I’m mad,” Sherlock sighed happily and without looking, began slipping the buttons through the holes of John’s shirt. 

John left himself to Sherlock’s ministrations and was struck with the reverent way the man kept touching him. It was incongruent with the passion and haste of the night previous. The tips of Sherlock’s fingers slipped from his shoulder to his scar, just as his lips dusted light kisses over the other shoulder. Palms pressed against scapulae and held, slid down his neck; a fore and middle finger bracketed his right nipple as Sherlock took John and kissed him deeply, stealing all of his breath. 

John felt for all the world like he was being _worshipped_ and his heart nearly splintered and caved for all of the wonderful pressure that was being put on it. 

“I’d like to taste you a bit more thoroughly just there,” Sherlock tapped on the tendon between neck and shoulder. “But there’s plenty of time for that _later_.”

It took another few moments and a fair bit of fumbling before they were both nude. “On the bed, “ Sherlock directed and John climbed up, laid back against the pillows and watched as Sherlock retrieved a condom from the pack and the small bottle of lubricant from his bedside table. 

“I’d not thought about all the… prep work,” John said quietly as Sherlock climbed onto the bed beside him. “No, well, I suppose I had, just not in the context that I would be-”

“John?”

“Mmm, yes?”

“Shut up, please,” he punctuated his statement with a deep, lingering kiss. 

John acquiesced as Sherlock rolled himself on top of him, right arm bracing his weight as he went from cupping John’s neck to cupping the erection against his belly. 

John made an incoherent noise in the back of his throat and bucked up sharply. “Do you know,” Sherlock rumbled and John could feel it throughout his chest cavity, “how brilliant it is that I can do this to you? Do you have any idea how much… I want you?”

“A bit,” John huffed a laugh, turning his head so he could clip Sherlock’s jaw in a kiss. “Yeah, yeah. A bit.”

Two fingers stroked up the length of John’s cock and then eager digits wrapped around. Pressing his head back into the pillow hard, John’s eyes slid closed as Sherlock hummed against him again, rattling his _soul_.Sherlock licked his way back into John’s mouth and slid off to rest at John’s side. The maneuver prompted John to sit up and lean over Sherlock who accepted him gratefully, arching up into the kiss.

When Sherlock reached for John’s prick again his hand was slick and a corner of John’s mind buzzed with curiosity as to how he managed to get the tube open with John’s noticing. After a few luxurious pulls, Sherlock’s hand disappeared; a moment later, John felt a gentle, slick pressure at his hole. “You’ll want to begin slow, like this,” Sherlock puffed against John’s mouth. 

“Slowly, a gentle circular motion,” he narrated as his finger pressed against the taut muscle and slipped just in. John huffed and settled hard on his knees, arms braced on either side of Sherlock’s head on the pillow. The detective grinned and added a bit more pressure, massaging John gently even as he crooked his finger. At John’s surprised gasp, Sherlock chuckled, lifted his head and licked quickly at the tip of John’s nose.

“Just like that,” Sherlock urged. “You’re a doctor, John. It’s _quite_ intuitive, I assure you.” He stroked another finger around John’s hole and then gave the hint of a third higher on his cleft, implying what to do. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he said breathlessly but gave a little whine when Sherlock slipped from him. He took a few steadying breaths and sat back on his calves. “Alright, over, you.”

Licking his lips, Sherlock gave a playful little thrust of his hips and turned over beneath John’s spread thighs, stuffing a pillow under his stomach. John pressed his tongue to his bottom lip and looked his fill. Sherlock’s endless back in the candlelight, the delightful notches of his spine in bas relief - it was almost too much and John closed his eyes against it for a moment.

Splaying his hands out along Sherlock’s lower back, John’s mind helpfully reminded him that he was about to engage in intercourse with a man, something he’d never done before. With a bit of effort, he brushed the thought aside; he knew enough of his own body, of the _human_ body that he was fairly certain that he wouldn’t botch it up too badly. First time jitters was all, he always got them a bit with a new partner and this was no different.

But then, this was _entirely_ different. A man back from the dead and a deep-seated devotion and affection that seemed somehow devastatingly fated. 

Sherlock squirming beneath him brought John suddenly out of thoughts; he hadn’t said anything, obviously trying to remain patient for John but he was painfully aroused and more than willing for John to begin. 

He retrieved the tube with a shaking hand and poured some out, slicking up his fingers, grimacing as some of the liquid dripped onto the duvet. Rubbing it between his fingers, he brought his hand to the cleft of Sherlock’s arse, swallowing thickly as he moved his thumb to stroke over the ring of muscle. It shivered beneath his touch and he watched as the pad of his thumb pressed a bit in, Sherlock’s body stretching to accommodate, nearly seeming as though it wanted to take him in.

He dragged twice with his thumb before pulling back and applying pressure with a forefinger just as he’d felt Sherlock do. It didn’t take much before his digit slid smoothly in. It was another few minutes before he managed a second and third but once seated, John curled his fingers upwards as Sherlock had done, as he’d done previously in his routine exams. 

The man beneath him pressed his head into the mattress just as he canted his hips back towards John, increasing the pressure. Sherlock gave a deep moan of approval and turned so that his cheek rested against the pillow; it was slick with spit, his mouth hanging open as John stroked into him, stretching him wider. 

“Just, brilliant, just like that,” he encouraged when John eased out only to slide back in, using his other hand to add just a bit more lubrication. John took his time working Sherlock open and it was long minutes later when Sherlock finally gasped and begged John off. “Please, I’m ready, I’m _ready_.”

“You’re sure,” John checked, even as he withdrew, wiping his hand on his thigh.

“Quite, come on.” And with none of the grace that he usually possessed, flopped over onto his back, erection flushed and bobbing at his stomach.

John was at a loss for words as he reached for the condom. Sherlock was splayed before him, open and wanton and _his_ and it was all a little much. He settled his gaze before him, nearly unable to take one more glimpse of his pink-dappled skin and leaking erection without coming apart. 

It was all so shockingly new and somehow the most natural thing he could think of, but he didn’t analyze the juxtaposition any further as he rolled on a condom and shuffled forward between Sherlock’s knees. The detective eagerly shifted himself down until his thighs were draped over John’s. 

Holding his tongue to his bottom lip, John aligned himself with Sherlock, moving forward until the head of his cock slipped against Sherlock’s hole. Experimentally, he gave a bit of pressure. John gritted his teeth and took a heaving breath, pressing his forehead down against Sherlock’s at the sensation.

Sherlock sighed against him, rubbing their noses together. “Yes John, yes.”

He gave a bit more effort and pressed until just the head of his prick was inside. It was tight, gloriously hot; Sherlock’s body held him and he could feel the pull, the body beneath John’s urging him deeper. After catching his breath, he righted his knees, cupped one hand against Sherlock’s cheek while the other cradled the curve of a thigh, and slid in.

They breathed together, completely still, Sherlock gulping in lungfuls of fresh air as he settled his hands around John’s arse. John willed his body to relax, willed himself to calm down; he could hardly see for he’d been pressing his eyes shut so hard that when he opened them there were starbursts of color blocking his vision. 

“Hmmm,” he hummed and licked his lips, breathing heavily through his nose as he pulled himself off of Sherlock’s chest and sat back, the man’s leg tightening around his waist. “Now, I believe you said about something into the mattress?”

Sherlock grinned and squirmed on John’s cock, setting him deeper. “Never let it be said you’re not a brilliant listener.”

“And you’ll tell me…” John rasped. 

Sherlock just nodded frantically and John restrained himself and began moving. The first drag out of Sherlock’s body was brilliantly slow, John managing to bring himself out nearly to the tip before sliding back in. He managed the tempo for a while, keeping it languid and unhurried until he felt the immediacy of his arousal recede a bit.

Only then did he speed up, thumbs pressing into Sherlock’s belly to create little bloodless voids. Sherlock’s hand held fast at John’s thighs, fingernails leaving painful crescents in the skin; the more primal part of John hoped he’d leave a mark. 

“Christ you’re good. This is… Sherlock, god” His hips snapped to the detective’s, his hand curling around Sherlock’s erection and stroking, thumb sliding wetly over the head. John tossed his head back, pressing his pelvis frantically to Sherlock’s arse.

John felt full to bursting, watching as Sherlock writhed against him, glorious white chest touched with a fine sheen of sweat, face twisted in need. He was _ethereal_ , John thought as he allowed himself to fall forward so they were chest to chest. “I love you,” he groaned, slipped the words between tongues and teeth and breaths. “ _Christ_ , I love you.”

“Please, John, _yes_ ,” Sherlock mouthed at John’s jaw, dragged his teeth over the jut of bone there. “Harder. You want to. Fuck me _harder_ ” Sherlock’s voice was aflame, words gritted out through teeth as he tilted his hips upwards, the better to meet John’s increasingly erratic thrusts. 

Sherlock managed to slip his hand between then, gripping his cock tightly, his knuckles knocking against John’s stomach with every movement. Sherlock’s jaw was slack as he looked up at John, their gazes meeting briefly. John gave a quick, wavering, disbelieving grin and then bit down on his bottom lip. “You close?”

“Yuh-yeah, yes-yes,” Sherlock tripped over his words, eyes fluttering briefly. Then he still, gasped deeply and came, thick ribbons of come coating his fingers, sliding down to where their bodies were joined. 

John sat back on his heels, feeling Sherlock quiver around him, watching as his semen slicked between them. His orgasm took him quite suddenly, a startled shout barreling it’s way past his lips. John’s thrusts stuttered and slammed into Sherlock, his body once more spreading out to blanket the detective as he managed the last few weak thrusts. 

They lay chest to chest for a moment, Sherlock’s hand stroking down John’s spine as their sweat cooled. When it started to become uncomfortable John clambered his way off of the bed on watery legs and disposed of the condom. He returned with a damp towel, handing it to Sherlock to clean himself up.

Sherlock did the best he could manage and then dropped it off the side of the bed, moving over to a dry spot on the bed, urging with a crooked finger for John to climb in alongside. There was little grace in John’s movements as he flopped and maneuvered himself over, legs kicking under the covers.

John sidled up to Sherlock, leaving a bit of distance between them until Sherlock rolled his eyes, reached over and pulled him in. John had to torque his body in order to accept the languid kiss Sherlock bestowed on him. 

Breaking apart, John took a moment to gaze at Sherlock. He looked terrifically wrecked, taken apart. The color still high in his cheeks; John thought he’d never seen anything to lovely and brought a thumb up to stroke across a cheekbone.

“I imagine,” Sherlock said breathlessly after a lingering silence, carding his fingers through John’s hair . “We’ll be _quite_ sore tomorrow.”

John face went completely blank of all emotion and then collapsed onto Sherlock’s chest in breathless chuckles.


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John found he was quite content; aside from a few moments of sudden panic at the drastic one-eighty his sexuality had taken, he wasn’t too terribly perturbed. _Sex with a man_ , John thought, thumbing to the next page in his novel, _can check that one off of the list I suppose_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to Allison and Felicia for helping me turn this into something that didn't suck. I adore the both of you 
> 
> Additionally... you're not [following me on tumblr?](http://www.scullyseviltwin.tumblr.com) How silly of you!

Sherlock slept the entirety of the first leg of their flight home; he slumped against the window and was dead to the world, even when John reached across and laid his hand briefly on his knee. John’s fingers pressed in and felt the heat through his trousers and wondered when he would next get the chance to look at that particular bit of skin unclothed.

He wondered when he would next get the opportunity to sink his teeth in just there, cause Sherlock to shake and chuckle with the placement of it.

Dear god, he was positively barmy over the man. He reminded himself that the sheen of newfound romance was sure to wear off at some point and he and Sherlock would sink into a comfortable - or, really, uncomfortable, considering it was Sherlock - routine. But for now, John enjoyed the low ripples of thrill in his stomach as he recalled the sweet rush of pressing inside of Sherlock, the soft, intense way he’d been gazing at John when he’d woken up on Thursday.

John found he was quite content; aside from a few moments of sudden panic at the drastic one-eighty his sexuality had taken, he wasn’t too terribly perturbed. _Sex with a man_ , John thought, thumbing to the next page in his novel, _can check_ that one _off of the list I suppose_.

It took them six hours to get to Denver during which John finished his novel, wrote it off as crap, and managed to stomach some of the on-board meal before giving up and settling in for an hour of watching Sherlock sleep. He somehow managed to look both young and very much put upon in slumber, his brow drawn somewhat tightly as though distressed.

John took two fingers and smoothed along his brow; the movement caused Sherlock to rouse a bit and curl in on himself, turning his entire body towards John and pressing his head into John’s bicep. John held him there loosely, carding his left hand gently through his hair while he watched the last bit of the in flight movie.

\---

By the time they made it back to London, John was beginning to feel both the effects of post-vacation slump and intense exhaustion. He’d remained awake from Denver to Boston and had only caught a few moments of sleep on the trip to London and it was all he could do to drag himself up the stairs to their flat.

John glanced from his suitcase to the stairs leading up to his room and frowned. Sherlock entered the flat behind him, all restless energy, the nearly seven hours of sleep replenishing his supply. He dumped his bag next to the sofa and dug out his laptop, plunking himself hastily down and turning the machine on. He’d managed well when they’d been away, hadn’t complained about not being on a case at all in front of John; surely he was curious to see if he had anything on now that they’d returned.

John watched as the screen illuminated Sherlock’s face and felt a stab of disappointment. Even though he’d steeled himself for a return to normalcy, he hadn’t expected the honeymoon phase to wear off quite so soon. He was startled to discover that the notion of going to bed without Sherlock beside him left him feeling a bit bereft. That alone was startling; they’d only technically been together for four days. 

He couldn’t be surprised if Sherlock didn’t necessarily think of them as being in a monogamous, in-it-til-the-end relationship. They hadn’t had that particular discussion and John was in no state of mind to have it now, knackered as he was. 

John’s mouth twisted in a sad smile when he bent to grab his bag, and he turned back to Sherlock, not bothering to hide the disappointment written on his face. Sherlock would suss it out anyway, write it off as sentiment and return to his work.

“I’m off to have a shower, good night,” and with that John turned, rolling his case towards the loo.

Sherlock hummed distractedly and then glanced up from his laptop. “Would you like me to grab one of your pillows or will mine suit?”

“Excuse me?” John’s tongue was thick with lack of sleep.

“You enjoy sleeping on a firmer pillow than I do, I didn’t know if my pillows would encumber your sleep.” Sherlock’s eyes were still fixed to the computer screen; he wasn’t aware of John’s mouth guppying open for loss of words.

John considered for a moment. “What I… I’m going to have a shower and head up to bed. I don’t want to… Sherlock you don’t have to put me up in your… bed.” Even as he said it, he knew it was weak and half-hearted.

“You’re exhausted,” Sherlock said distractedly. “And furthermore, I _want_ you there. Stop being difficult. Go have your shower.”

“Ummm,” John hummed to himself, his stomach rippling again. “All right.”

“And I’ll…” Sherlock mumbled, getting caught up in something he was reading. “...pillow.”

John grinned and made his way to the bathroom to indulge in a long, hot shower. He knew Sherlock wouldn’t rush him. Even if Sherlock did decide to join him in his own bed, John knew it wasn’t likely to be for quite awhile. So, John took his time, lathering up his hair with care, washing himself with a bottle of shower gel he’d nicked from the hotel rather than his customary three-for-three-quid bars of soap. 

When he emerged from the shower, John stepped up to the mirror and wiped away the fog from the glass. Through the streaks of water he took in his appearance: rested, a bit more vibrant than usual, _happy_. Running his tongue over his top row of teeth John gave himself a grin and then looked down into the basin of the sink, feeling silly. With an embarrassed smile firmly in place, he finished up in the bathroom, wrapping himself in his robe and wheeling his case towards Sherlock’s room.

Sherlock was still hunched over on the couch, staring at his laptop but he spared John a glance, noting he was outfitted in just his robe and slippers. “Are you intending to sleep in the nude?”

“Oh, uhm, no, just… it was a bit humid to be getting dressed for bed in the bathroom.” John felt his cheeks heat in spite of himself. 

Sherlock hummed and turned his gaze back to what he was doing, adding after a moment, “It would be fine, if you wanted to.”

John swallowed heavily, stared at the side of Sherlock’s head and felt just a bit dizzy. He wasn’t sure if it was the exhaustion or the fact that Sherlock wanted John to sleep in his bed, naked. “Right, well… good to know.”

With that, John retreated into Sherlock’s bedroom. 

He dressed quickly, rolled his case to the opposite side of the room and then glanced at the bed. He bent, tested the firmness of Sherlock’s mattress, the slick, expensive weave of the sheets and stood back. The few times he’d been in the room when the detective had been in the bed, he’d been flat on his stomach in the dead center. John wasn’t exactly certain into which side to climb. 

After a moment, he slipped onto the bed, on the far side. If Sherlock decided to come in at some point in the evening he was unlikely to wake John and if he came into his room and collapsed on the bed, he was less likely to collapse on top of John. Content that he’d rationalized his decision, he slid beneath the cover, pulling the plush duvet up an around him. The down settled around him, leaving him in a cozy little cocoon, a cocoon that smelled of Sherlock.

He turned his face into the pillow beneath him and was a bit surprised to find that it smelled like himself, that Sherlock had actually gone up to his room and retrieved one of his firmer pillows. John was momentarily sad that he couldn’t press his face right into the detective’s scent but then he lifted his head and switched out their pillows, swearing he was just going to lay on it for a time. 

When he came to it was dark in the room, the quiet surrounding him. He wondering in his slumber-fogged mind what had woken him and felt the mattress shift behind him. John froze, unsure of why he suddenly felt out of place, coming to awareness rather abruptly.

Sherlock slid in behind him, pressed the cold tip of his nose against the back of John’s neck. “This isn’t my pillow,” he said, low, thoughtful; then, in a much lighter, content voice, surmised, “sentiment,” kissed the back of John’s neck solidly and turned over onto his other side and slept. 

\---

When John shook off the thick tendrils of slumber, it was naturally. Diffused sunlight filtered through the curtains and he watched as dust particles floated lazily through the shaft of sunlight that had forced itself through the gap. He pressed the heel of his hand into his eyes to wipe the last vestiges of sleep away and turned over onto his side, the scent of coffee barrelling into him hard, making his mouth water.

Next to him, Sherlock was sitting up in bed clad in pajama pants, a soft looking gray vee-neck and thick, woolen socks. John raised a brow at the socks and went to remove the duvet from his upper body when he realized how chilly it was. John took a moment to remind himself that it was November and they were no longer on a tropical island. 

“I’ve sent my notes on Vicia menziesii to Lestrade; I doubt he’ll have any idea what to make of that at all,” Sherlock said, tapping the backspace key on his laptop with more effort than was needed.

John smiled and rolled onto his back, pulling the duvet up to his chin and shimmying his body out flat beneath it. “We can’t all have a firm grasp of the importance of horticulture.”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock replied and blindly reached down to hand John a warm cup.

“You made me coffee?”

“Mmmm.”

John dragged the cup carefully to his face and sniffed, tentatively. “There was milk in?”

“Went to Speedy’s,” Sherlock replied distractedly. 

“Ah.” John maneuvered up on his forearms and took a long drag from his mug; Sherlock must have made the pot some time ago because the liquid was lukewarm. He swallowed appreciatively and took another sip, smiling at Sherlock in thanks. 

When he had managed half the cup, John turned and placed the mug down on the floor on his side of the bed. “You… up to anything today?”

Sherlock pursed his lips, sighed and levered the screen of his laptop closed. “Would it be a problem if I was?” The challenge was evident in Sherlock’s voice, and John wasn’t exactly sure why. Was he attempting to get a rise out of him, John wondered.

“No, and if it was you’d just go anyway.” John rubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand. “I just like knowing where you are.”

Sherlock hummed as he considered. “I’ll be at the Yard most of the day. You won’t be needed.” With that, Sherlock transferred his laptop to the floor and flung himself beneath the covers, scooting up to John as close as possible. 

“Mmm, well good,” John said, smiling at Sherlock’s sudden closeness. “I’d wanted to try to get my body back on London time. And perhaps get some laundry done.”

“How _boring_ ,” Sherlock whined pressing his nose to John’s sternum. “Everything you do, positively all of it is so dreadfully _boring_.” Even as he said the words he was wrapping himself around John, long arms twining around his back, legs shifting to rest between John’s calves.

John huffed a laugh. “Except for you.”

“Pardon?”

“I do you, you’re not boring,” he rested his chin firmly in Sherlock’s hair and held him. 

He felt the detective smile against his skin. “That was awful, and unimaginative.”

“Oh, you thought it was funny.” John went quiet, as did Sherlock, both of them content to bask in the sweet warmth of the other’s body. 

Sherlock fidgeted, grumbled, “shut up. Kiss me.”

“Might be too boring for you,” John replied airily, allowing his arms to go slack, Sherlock rolling away. The detective righted himself, slid his right leg over John so that he was firmly settled over the man’s groin. Though John’s gaze held anywhere but on Sherlock, seemingly uninterested, his hands went immediately to Sherlock’s hips, fingers pressing in.

“You can bore me forever, John.” The sincerity in his voice was startling and it caused a shiver to run down John’s spine. 

John’s throat was a little tight when he asked, “That so?”

“Yes, now _kiss me_ ,” came the demand.

“Get _down_ here, then,” John laughed. Sherlock slid lithely over John, meeting him against the pillow. They snogged lazily for a time, Sherlock half on top of John.

Sherlock meandered his lips down John’s jaw to his neck, placing sloppy kisses wherever he felt the need. “Would it be too much to ask you to be in this bed when I return?” His tone of voice hinted at the fact that it wasn’t so much a question but an absolute: John should still be in bed when Sherlock returned.

John smiled lazily and allowed his eyes to slip closed, opening his thighs so that Sherlock could slide easily between them. He wouldn’t argue about this, because at the moment there was nowhere he would rather be. “No, no, but I’ll wait until after you’re back to do laundry.”

Sherlock dropped another kiss on his sternum, wriggling his hips as he did. “Why?”

John shimmied down in the bed until they were chest to chest and settled a warm hand on Sherlock’s arse. “Well, I assuming I’ll have to wash these sheets.”

Sherlock sat back against John’s thighs and looked every bit the pompous aristocrat when he said, “And you would assume correctly.”


End file.
